Identity
by Muphrid
Summary: Abducted by a tribe of Chinese Sorcerers, Ranma must find some way to escape his captors or thwart the dark ritual that they need him for. - DISCONTINUED and rewritten, starting with "Tribe of the Ki Sorcerers."
1. In the Cold Rain: Prelude

**Note: **As of April 9, 2010, I've decided to try updating this project on a weekly basis. As a result, I've split the first two chapters into smaller parts. The third chapter, "Journey to Jusenkyo," begins with FFN chapter 12.

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

This story is intended as continuing from the end of the _Ranma 1/2_ manga. Thus, events for the series, particularly the final volumes, are heavily referenced herein. You may be spoiled if you have no knowledge of these plotlines.

* * *

**In the Cold Rain**

_A chapter in five acts_

**Prelude**

In the cold rain he hid in shadow, watching droplets ripple across the pond. He scanned the horizon, but sheets of rain and dense jungle concealed his pursuer from him, and he from her.

He rubbed his hand over his forehead, wiping blood away.

He leaned over the pond, admiring the gash that marred his hairline. He rubbed his fingers together, and the blood washed away.

But he lingered. Murky water clouded and swirled. The water showed his reflection, an image for all to see.

The image of a girl.

It wasn't the way things should've been. He didn't want to be back here so soon.

Over his shoulder, bamboo wavered in the rain. Each pole stood upright, even as spring water lapped at the base.

Should've been easy. He'd come this far, hundreds of miles. He trekked through brush and over mountains to get here. And though the springs were busy—the guide entertained four guests, clad in black, who spoke Chinese he couldn't understand—Ranma stood over the pool, whose water would make him a man again, in hot or cold.

Then it rained. It rained, and Ranma shrank under the showers, but the others did not. The strangers stared at him, whispered to each other.

Ranma ignored them. He squared his feet at the edge, bent his knees …

And a throwing star zipped past his face, cutting a bamboo stalk in two.

They never said why. They never said anything. They blasted energy from their hands, knocked him clear across the training grounds. That's when he made the pragmatic choice—the choice to run and hide. He cursed himself for it; he cursed every time he tucked his head to flee from them and saw a girl's bust in his way. Even if he returned home, he'd come back only half a man. Half a man to the people he left.

To the girl he left.

One of the strangers trudged up the hill, a little lump of dirt that overlooked the pond. The girl's reddish-brown hair, damp with rainwater, clung to her back, but sharp eyes looked out, searching.

Ranma slunk under the rock formation. Some strategy this was—hiding in the dark. A strategy for cowards and rats.

"Maybe you were right, Akane," he muttered. "Maybe a man—"

The stranger locked eyes with him.

_A man wouldn't fear losing. A man would stand and fight._

* * *

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	2. In the Cold Rain I: Monday

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

* * *

**Monday**

_Chapter One, Act One_

"Race you to school, Ranma!"

On Monday morning in Nerima, a cool wind rustled the trees. At the gate to the Tendō house and dojo, the youngest of three sisters held her schoolbag with both hands and faced the front door. Leaves and branches cast dancing shadows on her uniform, an irregular pattern of light and darkness.

"I bet you can't catch me," she told her fiancé.

"Is that right." With a heave and a push, Ranma nudged open the gate. "I'd like to see you try to get away."

"I'll run fast," she said. "Who knows what would happen if a pervert like you caught me."

"You think you can run from me?"

"Do we have a challenge or what?"

"Yeah, you're on!"

With a laugh and a smile, Akane sprinted down the sidewalk.

"Hey, I didn't hear anything about a head start!" said Ranma. "That's cheating!"

"Then catch me!"

He smirked. "You asked for it." He slung his school bag over his shoulder and took off, and for a day, one day in the chaos of Nerima, two teenagers ran to beat the late bell.

For once, nothing else mattered.

Not marriage. That was well behind them now. Their fathers' latest attempt at coerced matrimony had blown up spectacularly. The dojo wouldn't recover without a good day's work of boarding up the holes and sealing the cracks. Really, what were they thinking? Knocking him out and dressing him in a tux like that—did they think sending him to Akane's room would make him hear wedding bells?

Or that, upon seeing her in a gown and veil, he wouldn't have the heart to refuse?

Okay, _maybe_ their scheming fathers understood him better than he liked. Akane's grace and tranquility in her wedding dress stunned him, and the little lies, the rude insults he might use to cover up his awe, withered in light of her charm, her beauty.

A beauty he'd soon spoil. "Why the sudden change of heart?" he'd asked. "What made you want to go ahead with the wedding?"

"Well …" A light blush colored her cheeks. Akane met his gaze and smiled.

"Ranma," she said, "you love me, don't you?"

Love? How could she know? How could she even suspect? All the times he tried to tell her, the words came out wrong … if he summoned the strength the speak them at all.

"But, when you were crying over me at Jusenkyō, I could've sworn I heard you, you know, say you loved me."

Loved her? At Jusenkyō, he'd wept over her. In the bowels of the mountain there, at the source of the springs, Ranma battled the denizens of Mount Phoenix, the bird-men who sought to warm the cold springs. Only scalding water would transform their leader—the pyromancer called Saffron—to his full adult form. They needed him to give light to their village, and no one, certainly not a handful of cursed boys and girls from Japan, would deter them. At the base of the Dragon Tap, Saffron trapped Ranma in the threads of his transformation egg, and the child-prince cackled at this turn of events. "You're so gullible, Ranma, like all the landings are. You shall serve as food for my rebirth!"

But Akane was there, hiding among the rocks. She shouldn't have been in China at all, but as Ranma pulled and yanked against Saffron's threads, Akane dashed across the Tap. Turning the faucet would shut off the hot water and free Ranma, and not for a second did she hesitate.

"Ranma, get ready to make a run for it! Hurry!"

Saffron shot his threads to stop her, but Akane spun the faucet's handle, stemming the flow of hot water.

"Akane!" said Ranma. "Thank God you're safe!"

CRACK!

But she wasn't. A flash of light, an explosion of heat, and everything left of Akane—the robes off her back—floated into Ranma's hands.

And there, in the pool beside Saffron's egg, Ranma shut down. Even as Ryōga and Mousse dragged him to safety, he fixated on the cloth, for it held within it the last traces of her warmth, her smell.

When did she become so important to him? When did she start to matter so much that when the guide took her clothes away, he chased after them, crashed through the coffee table, and thought of how she walked this road, the path to the afterlife …

She was leaving him alone.

That frightened him, both then and now. It frightened him when he realized something of her had survived—a tiny doll, magically dehydrated, that only cold cursed water would bring to life again. That fear motivated him, fueled him. He fought Saffron, the living embodiment of flame. He bore the elements of fire and ice. He turned Saffron's unquenchable blaze against him, and Akane showed him the way. She flew from his hands, bored a hole in the fire to create an opening, and Ranma took it. With one punch, perfectly nestled between hot air masses, Ranma shot a needle-like vortex through the air. It drilled into Saffron and sniped the Phoenix King from the sky.

Ranma killed him, all for Akane.

In the torrent of cold water, he huddled over her body, wrapped her in his shirt. A pathetic gesture, perhaps—to cry over her, now that she was gone. He pleaded with her to awaken. His tears dripped on her face.

_I wanted to tell you that I love you! _

She stirred. She called his name. She smiled and said that she heard everything—including, as he later found out, his declaration of love.

The one he thought he lacked the courage to say aloud.

That's how, on their wedding day, he spoiled her beauty—denying that he ever said it. But that, like all the other mistakes, was best forgotten. This day, she lived, and were it not for his composure, his hope to make good on past regrets, he could cry for joy right then and there, that she was still with him.

How strange it was, to think one person could affect your life so strongly.

Ten steps behind, Akane trailed Ranma, huffing and panting.

"What's the matter?" he said. "Can't keep up?"

"You didn't run three kilometers at dawn."

"Don't you usually run five?"

"I'm easing back into it!"

Ranma spun and ran backward, outpacing Akane's labored strides.

"Now you're just …" She coughed. " … teasing me because you've already won."

At that, Ranma fell into step beside her, taking her bag off her hands. "I think we can call this one a draw."

Akane laughed, resting against a telephone pole. Her forehead thudded against the metal.

"Keep walking. It's not good for you to stop."

"I know." She wiped the sweat from her brow. "I guess I'm still a little weak."

_Because you came back from the dead._ He buried the thought. He scarcely wanted to remind himself of that fright, let alone bring back the memories for her. It was one thing to lose, he realized, but quite another to have lost.

"I guess we'll have a second chance, huh, Ranma?"

A second chance?

"There's always tomorrow," she said.

"Yeah, like you'll beat me tomorrow."

"Watch me."

"Oh I will." He looked to the canal and grinned. "I definitely will."

Akane was right, after all. This was a chance, an opportunity, to atone for childish insults and acts of petty jealousy, to make good on the time that death had forgiven them, this time they had together.

Ring-ring!

This time they had with Shampoo.

The Chinese Amazon pedaled along the sidewalk, waving her hand. "Ranma!"

"Ah, look, it's your sexy fiancée," said Akane, rolling her eyes.

"My what?"

"Well, Ukyō's the cute one."

"You're not cute when you're jealous."

Akane folded her arms. "Who says I'm jealous?"

Ranma sniffed. This new Akane was an improvement over the old one. The first mention of jealousy should've landed him in the canal.

Then again, while he needled Akane safely, Shampoo knew ways to irritate her. She'd glomp him from behind and rub her breasts against him, and Akane would slap him into the chain-link fence. Never mind that Shampoo did all the flirting; Ranma bore the blame, for he never tried hard enough to escape. All Shampoo had to do was ride in on her bike, stuff a pork bun in his mouth, and …

Pork buns. Why would she have pork buns? Why would she have a paper bag in the basket, ring the bell with one hand and wave a pork bun in the other unless …

_She brought pork buns to the wedding! _

"Akane, get behind me!"

"What? Hey!"

He grabbed her wrist, shielding her. He squared his body to the oncoming bike.

SQUEAL! The bike skidded! The pork buns scattered. Shampoo jolted against the handlebars.

"Aiya! What happen? What Ranma do?"

Ranma released the front-end, now bent from the sudden stop.

"Look what mess you make!" Shampoo retrieved the buns, stuffing them in the bag. "Shampoo make these herself!"

"To blow us up?" said Akane.

"Is peace offering." She said the words through clenched teeth, as if the very idea made her tense. "Great-grandmother suggest Shampoo apologize for what happen."

"With the same pork buns you used to crash the wedding?"

Shampoo tore apart a bun, holding the halves out for Ranma and Akane to see. "Is clearly not same bun," she said. "No gunpowder."

"Oh, clearly!"

Shampoo glared at Akane, but she turned her attentions on Ranma. "Is good, yes? Shampoo sorry for hurting Ranma. Thankful, too, that Ranma save Shampoo from bird-men mind control." She offered the bag. "Ranma accept?"

Ranma took the buns, each a small, steaming pile of yeast and meat. Safe to the touch. Safe to eat. Meant to give thanks and ask forgiveness from him.

From him and him alone. Shampoo never wanted to hurt him—this he did believe—but she'd made her intentions clear. On Ranma's wedding day, she and Ukyō stormed the dojo, their wedding gifts in hand.

"Aiya!" she'd said. "Shampoo was aiming for Akane!"

Ranma eased the bag into her hands. "Thanks," he said, "but I'm not hungry."

The Amazon met his gaze, perplexed, uncertain.

"Let's go, Akane," said Ranma. "We're going to be late."

#

Ranma blundered at the wedding—this he didn't doubt—but he shared responsibility for the disaster with the others who wouldn't see him (or Akane) wed. Kunō held nothing back: he brought a genuine, hand-crafted sword to the proceedings and slashed at Ranma. His sister, Kodachi, arrived in her own wedding dress, claiming she would save Ranma from the "harpy" Akane. Somehow, Akane's father thought it wise to coerce his daughter, to promise the cure to Ranma's curse if she married him, but Ryōga, Mousse, and even Ranma's own father fought over the cask. Happōsai, Grand Master of Anything Goes (and an even grander panty-thief), drank the water, mistaking it for sake. The cursed men shoved a plunger down his throat to get the water out of him.

"Happō Daikarin!"

KA-BOOM!

This effort did not go over well.

But before the master lit his fire bombs, Ukyō and Shampoo, Ranma's other fianceés, arrived at the party, one with okonomiyaki, the other with pork buns. They bowed and smiled and crept into the dojo, and when Akane came into their sights …

BOOM! KA-POW!

Perhaps they tunnel-visioned on their target, for their explosive foodstuffs hit Ranma instead. Those blasts, on top of Happōsai's firecrackers, knocked Ranma out. Even now, his memories of the wedding lay fragmented, returning to him in snippets and flashes, but one memory, one voice, rang through his mind.

"Don't worry!" Ukyō had said. "It's now or never for us!"

Ranma shook his head. Was there nothing sacred in this battle for love?

That's why the wedding was best forgotten, for if not, an icy claw would grip his heart and knot his stomach. Not anger or disgust. Any feelings of malice toward the two girls fizzled and escaped through the holes in the dojo walls, the cracks they left behind. Nay, he felt no rage against them, only … disappointment. Though he might try to bury the past and make a new future, Shampoo and Ukyō wouldn't forget the failed wedding of Ranma and Akane.

Nor would their peers.

"Is it true, Akane?" asked Sayuri. "You went after Ranma-kun to tell him you loved him, in case he never came back?"

Akane winced. "Now wait a second …"

"Oh, oh! He must've rescued you from those bird people, yeah?" Yuka flapped her arms and giggled. "And because he freed you from them, you agreed to marry him, right?"

"That's not what—" She stopped. "I'm perfectly capable of saving myself, thank you very much."

Ranma shrugged. "She did break out of her cage all by herself."

"Now you're just being modest," said Daisuke.

"Have you known him to be modest?" said Akane.

Ranma folded his arms. "I'm not being modest at all. I just wish they'd have clamped down on the grate a little tighter."

A rubber eraser flew across the room and smacked Ranma in the forehead.

"Hey!"

"Maybe I should beat you senseless like I did those two guards," said Akane.

"Just try it!"

The pair pulled down their eyelids and blew raspberries, much to the amusement of their classmates.

"Well, looks like more of the same from these two," said Hiroshi.

Daisuke yawned. "It'd be more entertaining if we were hearing about the wedding night."

Wedding night? As in, carry the bride over the threshold while she unbuttons your jacket, unzips your pants? That kind of wedding night?

"Hey, I think you got a rise out of him," said Hiroshi.

"A rise is right," said Daisuke.

"You boys are perverts," said Akane.

Ranma glared at the two offenders and turned away from Akane, drumming his fingers on the desk. That their affairs were the talk of the town surprised him little. On his first day in Nerima, the school buzzed with news. "Akane is engaged?" they said. "To this new boy who trounced Kunō, who's a better martial artist than anyone?"

Well, maybe they didn't say the last part.

Still, rumors about the wedding and Ranma's journey to China multiplied. Gossip birthed speculation, which in turn spawned innuendo and intrigue. "Maybe it was doomed from the start," said a girl. "I heard Saotome-kun saw Akane in her dress before the wedding!"

A boy frowned. "And that's bad because …?"

"Don't you know anything about weddings? That's bad luck! Or at least for a Western wedding it is."

"Sounds like a good reason to go traditional."

Meaningless, empty talk. But one question caught Ranma's attention over the din of gossip in the classroom.

"Where's Kuonji?"

During breaks in their conversations, Ranma's classmates spied the empty desk where Ukyō would sit—if she arrived this morning, that is. When her friends looked away, Akane met Ranma's gaze. She glanced at Ukyō's seat and back again, as if to ask him silently, with her eyes, the question on both their minds.

"Do you think she'll show?"

Perhaps she would. Any second now, she could walk through the door, hug him, pump her fist and say, "You see, everyone? I've defended my Ranchan from anyone else who would take him. Try to marry him, and you'll have to go through me."

Ranma shuddered. _I hope not …_

"Your Ranma?" Akane would answer her. "He doesn't belong to you and you alone, Ukyō!"

"Why shouldn't he? Shampoo's hold on Ranchan has to do with her laws, not ours. Kodachi has no claim at all. You? He may have been promised to your family, but he was promised to mine, too, and you don't even want him. Or do you?"

Before China, this exchange would've ended simply, for Akane'd rather dance naked on hot coals than admit any feelings for him. "I don't want him," she'd say, "but that doesn't mean he's yours for the taking, either."

Those excuses of hers never made sense.

But the Akane that came back to him, that the waters of Jusenkyō brought to life again, was different. When she thought he loved her, she pushed herself to go through with the wedding—that's what she said, and not just to get him his cure, either. Akane could be generous, yes, but would she marry him for that? Only for that?

No, to wed someone she loved meant too much to her. The only explanation, the best explanation, was that something inside her believed she could love him … or thought she might with time.

It mattered to him, more than he cared to admit, more than he would admit to their schoolmates or to her.

"It's not like it was our idea," Akane told her friends. "It was all our fathers' doing. Isn't that right, Ranma?"

The boys in the class watched him, grinning. The girls whispered in each other's ears. The room focused their attention on the pair—an unrelenting level of scrutiny, of interest.

And for a moment, Ranma resented them. He hated how they made his life and Akane's their business. They would love nothing more than to hear him disagree for a change, for they'd jump at the first hint that he loved her. To these people, their classmates, love was a grand old game, a merry diversion before the school day started. For the girls, it was a piece of theater, a stage play in which they reenacted the great romances of the past, the ones they wished for themselves. For the boys, it was a journey around the baseball diamond, a progression from one exploit to the next.

Ranma was no ball player, though. If he felt nothing, he'd ignore them, give them no hold over him, but he did feel something. He felt sorry for Akane, that Shampoo and Ukyō shattered her dream, ruined the wedding. He felt hollow every time he thought back to China, to how he came down in the shower of cold water and found her naked, without a breath from a her lips.

May no one—not his friends or classmates or anyone else—know such weakness for themselves. More importantly, may they never know he felt it once, that if Akane hadn't come back to him …

"Of course it wasn't our idea," he answered her. "If it weren't for the cursed water, there wouldn't have been any wedding at all!"

The boys in the room shook their heads. The girls sighed and gave Ranma a cold, deadly stare. And Akane, for her part, pursed her lips. Her body tensed.

Any second now, she should punt him into the stratosphere. He'd seen this progression too many times—

"Excuse me, girls," she muttered, eyes locked on him. "I need to visit the ladies' room."

She marched out.

Ranma slumped in his chair. Perhaps he'd been foolish, trying to forget the past, as if it didn't matter, for in burying old insults and spats, he learned nothing of how to treat her right.

"You need to go after her," said Hiroshi.

"What?" said Ranma.

"Think about it." Daisuke crouched beside Ranma's desk. "She could be crying in that bathroom because of what you said."

"Now wait a second—"

"So then you move in," said Daisuke. "You apologize, and if you do it right … well …"

"Well what?"

"You've got instant privacy," said Hiroshi.

"In the bathroom?"

"Yeah, you just—hey!"

Yuka dragged the two boys by the arm. "Shame on you both!" said Sayuri. "Saotome-kun, you'd do better not to listen to them."

Ranma frowned. "I try not to."

"But you should make up with Akane. What you said was—"

"Stupid?"

"Yes, but not surprising." She smiled and leaned past his ear. "Akane may say it's nothing, but I know, and you should know, it's not."

Ranma made a fist, tapping it against the desk. Sayuri had it right: Akane would never show that he'd hurt her, not in front of everyone else.

"So go talk to her," said Sayuri. "Before Sensei gets here, at least."

"But Akane went to the restroom," said Yuka, beating back the two boys. "The girls' restroom. You can't have a boy go to the girls' restroom."

Sayuri unzipped her purse. "That's easily fixed."

"Hey, hey!"

A small puddle formed at the foot of the desk.

"See?" Sayuri capped her empty water bottle. "Problem solved."

"Somehow," said the pigtailed girl, "I doubt it."

#

"Come on …"

Ranma untucked his shirt and draped it over the sink, wringing out the water in the cloth.

A flushing toilet whooshed in the background.

"You know, someone might think there's a sign on my back that says, 'Instant transformation, just add water! ' "

The girl in the mirror chuckled sardonically. She pulled on the shirt, but the damp fabric clung to her chest.

Her well-endowed chest.

Ranma sighed. "I guess there's no other way about it." He shed his clothes, down to his boxers, and twisted his shirt and pants tight.

"I hate being wet, you know," he told the girl in the mirror. "Even hot water turns cold after a while. It's never really good enough until you get dry."

Patches of water clung to his skin—at the base of his neck and along his arms.

"You see? Never enough."

He yanked some paper towels from the dispenser and dabbed at the droplets. Water seeped into the fibers, and the brown paper turned to mush in his hands.

"That's more like it. All better now, yeah?"

To his dismay, the girl in the mirror never responded to him, not that he expected her to. She was himself, after all—they were one and the same person, despite his myriad efforts to remedy that, but it helped, so he thought, to consider her a being outside of him, distinct from the real Saotome Ranma. That way, when a splash of cold water brought her out, he couldn't be blamed for it. She was something else, something that wasn't him. Sure, he used her to his advantage now and again—to earn free food from unsuspecting boys, to mess with Ryōga in what should be painfully transparent disguises, but these behaviors were not his own. They belonged to her, and when he finally drowned her in the springs of Jusenkyō, he wouldn't miss her, not one bit.

"You are part of the reason I'm not married to Akane right now," he said. "We had Shampoo and Ucchan under control, but not you."

The girl blinked, matching his stern gaze.

"If she marries you, she's a pervert, you know," said Ranma. "A girl can't marry a girl."

The image in the mirror raised her eyebrows.

"Well, not in this country. Maybe in Holland."

He draped his clothes over the door to a stall. Even a couple minutes of drying out would be better than sitting in wet pants all day. He studied the girl, the reflection in the mirror. It would've been a strange picture indeed if they'd gone through with the wedding after all. Nothing like a girl in a tuxedo marrying another girl. Knowing his magnetic attraction to cold water, the possibility seemed all too likely.

Maybe that's why she could do it. With him cured, the specter of the curse would haunt them no more, and though Akane wouldn't admit it, she'd want to marry a man, wouldn't she? Why should she settle for a compromise?

Of course, it shouldn't matter. Were their positions reversed, he'd accept her. He teased her about a lot of things—her weight, her tomboyish nature, her small bust—but never would he taunt her about a curse. He swore that to her. Even if it was Keema just masquerading as her. Even if, thank the gods, she'd not been cursed after all.

But such sentiment he couldn't expect of her, and if he meant to make amends, he should do it as a man. A dry man, at that, not soaking, topless—

"Ah, excuse me?"

Girl.

Three boys, one from the occupied stall and two from the doorway, stared at the girl who wrung out her clothes in the sink.

The sink of the men's restroom.

"What? You guys know who I am, right?"

The trio shook their heads.

"Saotome Ranma?"

Blank looks.

"The guy who turns into a girl when you pour water on him?"

Raised eyebrows.

"Here, I'll prove it to you." He spun the hot water faucet. "Crazy, ignorant second-years," he muttered. "Or what, maybe you're third-years? You have to know Kunō."

"The kendo captain?" said one.

"Yeah, the kendo captain. Weren't you guys there when we played Seishun? I was one of the cheerleaders."

"I don't go to kendo matches."

Ranma rolled his eyes. "All right, fine. You'll see what I'm talking about for yourselves, then. Get a load of this!" He cupped his hands and splashed himself!

With cold water.

"I don't think the hot water's working today," said one of the boys. "I heard a janitor say a pipe burst in the girls' room."

The girl before them, who dripped onto dark, grungy tiles, rolled her eyes. "Oh no, it's not a pipe. It's the gods conspiring against me."

The boy in the stall gulped and eyed Ranma head to toe. "Um, how much time before class?"

"Maybe six or seven minutes," said one of the others.

"That's good enough." He swung the stall door shut, locking himself in.

Ranma fumed. "I don't believe this."

"Hey, I think he's got the right idea," said one of the others.

Ranma balled his hand into a fist. _I ought to knock you into last week for that._

But then, he glimpsed the girl in the mirror. Shorter she was than he, to be sure. Weaker, too. Attractive, perhaps, if he didn't see himself in the mirror as well. So many times he'd fought with this body, not his own, and for better or worse, those experiences taught him how to fight without raw power, to use the smaller, nimble frame to his advantage when needed. With a girl's body, he needn't—nay, shouldn't—attack a problem head-on, even if that problem was just three horny teenage boys whose lust for his body humiliated him. While being a girl caused his problem, it could also resolve it with devastating effectiveness. Yes, this tactic would be much more satisfying than punching these boys' lights out for eyeing him. This way, they'd never want to look at him again.

"So, boys." Ranma drove his voice higher, shedding nasal overtones for a cute, clear pitch. "You like what you see?"

The two boys at the door nodded. "I think we agree—you can visit the boys' bathroom anytime."

"Ohoho, I'm so happy! I hoped you would like what the surgeon did …" He stroked his breasts slowly, circling the nipples twice. " … with these."

"You have implants?"

"Well, of course, silly! I just wish I were a full woman; then I could please you like a woman should!"

"A 'full' woman?"

Ranma giggled. "Why yes! I mean, I'm almost a full woman. The surgeon only left a little bit left. I'm really not a man anymore, though, I promise!" He fingered the elastic band of his boxers. "You want to see?"

The two boys bolted. The third burst from the stall, dragged his pants around his ankles, and hopped away.

"Heh." Ranma grinned. "Serves them right." He tapped on the mirror and smiled at the image. "Looks like I owe you one."

#

Fully clothed, Ranma emerged from the restroom still a girl, his hair a bit damp, but otherwise dry. A return to manhood, however temporary, would have to wait until he found a coffee maker or some other source of hot water. For now, he had class, and class meant making amends with—

"What were you doing in there?"

Akane.

"Your friends decided I should come find you," he said. "They thought this …" He gestured across his short, feminine frame. " … would help."

"So you could get in the girls' bathroom?"

"Something like that."

"I'd have kicked you out the moment you set foot in there."

"You see, I know that, and you know that, but Yuka and Sayuri didn't seem to get it. That's why I went in the guys'."

She glanced down the hall. "Then those boys who ran past here …?"

"I told them I was still technically a guy."

"I don't understand."

"Well, they were looking at me. I mean, it's not my fault my clothes got all wet. Had to dry them off somewhere."

She gaped, appalled. "Ranma!"

"Ow!"

Akane rubbed her knuckles, shaking off the impact. "Is that why you're here? To give a peep show to a bunch of guys?"

"I went to get dry," he said, massaging his shoulder. "And maybe to find out if you were still mad."

"Mad?"

"About what I said."

Akane stepped back, leaning against the wall. "It's not that I'm mad. I just needed to get away."

"From what?"

"Everyone else. It's harder than I thought, you know—pretending that China didn't happen, that the marriage was our parents' idea and we had nothing to do with it."

"Why would we pretend those things?"

"Why wouldn't you tell everyone that you saved me, that we saved each other?"

"Because I know how that looks. So do you."

She nodded. "It was a lot easier when we didn't understand how we feel."

How they felt? Together?

"I remember what you told me, Ranma."

What he told her?

"When you cried over me at Jusenkyō."

_But I didn't say—_

"I still believe it."

"Akane—"

"Even though you denied it." She smiled. "That was just pretending too, right?"

Pretend. To deceive, to make believe. All the time, he had pretended, hadn't he? He shielded his heart in a lie, blocking their friends and even fooling himself, for only he knew the effect this girl had on him: how he'd hoped for her blessing before he, Mousse, and Ryōga departed for China; how her bold advances in the bath there both excited and terrified him. Sure, it wasn't like her, but that was an excuse, one last barrier to protect himself. Had she brought that wall down …

Thud. A school bag skidded past the corner and slid on the floor.

"Idiot! Get it back!"

"Shut up!"

Amidst a flurry of whispers, Ranma and Akane spied a lone hand reach around the corner wall and tug on the bag's strap, dragging it out of sight.

"I guess we're being watched," said Akane.

Ranma huffed. "Morons. I should go show them a piece of my mind."

"No, wait!" She grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him back. "I have an idea."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah." She giggled. "It's going to be fun."

"Fun? Just what kind of fun—?"

She yanked him toward her, and their bodies crashed and bumped together, and then, with her arms at his hips, they stood still.

"Akane …"

She lowered her voice. "You know, we have time now. We don't need to rush things."

The pigtailed girl nodded, but even this slight motion shifted their bodies, changed the sensation of a Chinese shirt rubbing over a schoolgirl's blouse.

"You don't have to tell me again," she said. "I'll remember, either way."

_But I didn't say it, Akane. I didn't have the courage to say it, even when I thought you might never hear me. If I couldn't say it then, how can I say it now? Though we're so close here, what's stopping me from choking on it and saying it wrong? _

He closed his eyes, settling in her embrace.

_I don't want to spoil this._

She pushed on his shoulders, and the pair looked at one another with contented smiles.

Akane's turned to a wicked grin. "Oh, Ranma, you're an even better kisser as a girl!"

"WHAT?"

A pile of students collapsed and spilled into the hallway.

"It's a lie!" said Ranma. "It's a lie; it's a lie—"

Punch!

"Ow! God, that's the same damn spot Akane!"

"Shame on all of you." Akane wrung out her fingers and glared at the unwanted spectators. "Caught you all."

"Yeah?" said Daisuke. "Well, it was worth it."

"You boys have no shame!" said Yuka. "Still!"

"Haven't you ever wondered if they do it as girls more of the time?" asked Hiroshi.

Flying schoolbags buried Hiroshi and Daisuke, and their owners, the first-year girls of Furinkan, towered over the offenders.

"It was kissing!" Daisuke's voice rang out, even under the pile of bags. "He meant kissing!"

"Come on, everyone," said Sayuri. "Sensei will be here any minute."

Ranma pulled Akane aside. "I'm a better kisser as a girl?"

"It was something that would get people's attention."

"Well, I think you got it all right."

"Oh, don't be so gloomy." She massaged his shoulder, rubbing out the pain. "No one's watching now."

He checked the halls. Sure enough, the class had scattered. Daisuke and Hiroshi, as further punishment, carried the bags they'd been assaulted with. For a slim minute, Ranma and Akane walked the halls alone, without onlookers. Here, all to themselves, they needn't pretend.

He slipped her hand in his, and together, girl and girl paced down the hall, in no hurry to rejoin their classmates. This was how it should be. Not right now, for Ranma had yet to adjust himself to the idea, but someday, maybe sooner than he thought, he'd pass the schoolyard gate with Akane's arm locked in his. It wouldn't be tomorrow, or the next day, or even the day after that, but it could happen. It could happen because, as luck would have it, Akane heard his confession of love and took it for what it was. Perhaps some spirit had whispered the words in her ear; who could say?

Ranma would have to thank them after school. Not only did they bring Akane back, but they told her what he couldn't muster the strength to say aloud, what he could scarcely understand—

"Ranchan?"

Or control consciously.

Ranma dropped Akane's hand like it scalded him. "Ucchan …"

Kuonji Ukyō stared, speechless.

"Come along!" Ninomiya Hinako trotted past her taller students. Her heels clicked on the floor. "Class is starting!"

Without a word, Ukyō filed in behind the teacher, glancing between her fiancé and rival.

"What are you going to tell her?" asked Akane.

In the room, Ukyō slid into her seat, eyes fixed on the chalkboard.

"I don't know."

* * *

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	3. In the Cold Rain II: Akane

**Note:** Once again, I have decided to try updating this project in weekly installments and, as a part of that, I've split the first two chapters into smaller parts. The third chapter proper, "Journey to Jusenkyō," starts with FFN chapter 12.

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

* * *

**Akane**

_Chapter One, Act Two_

"Are you sure this is what you want, Akane?"

"Hm? Oh, I don't know." She pulled on her ears, frowning. "The earrings might be too much. Or the pearls. I'm not really sure."

"That's not what I meant to ask," said Kasumi, guiding a comb through her sister's hair. "I mean all of this—the preparation, the ceremony. It seems very sudden to me."

"Why do you say that?"

"I'd hoped you and Ranma-kun would learn to get along better, but it's only been a few days since you returned from China. I can't imagine that you're both ready."

"For what, Sister?"

"To be married."

Marriage, of course. That's what all these garish trappings were for: white carnations nestled in her hair, anchoring a thin veil to her back. A bouquet of flowers rustled in her hands. Akane closed one eye and then the other, admiring the light blue pigment that adorned her lids, a small splash of color against the pure white, Western wedding gown.

She frowned, tugging at her hips and arms. "It _is_ a little tight. Can we get a tailor? Or is there enough time to go back to the kimono, do you think? It's going to be so strange, with just me and Ranma in these outfits."

"That's not what I'm referring to, either, little sister," said Kasumi.

"What then?"

Kasumi crouched beside Akane. Holding her by the shoulders, she met her sister's gaze in the mirror. "Do you truly feel prepared to be Ranma-kun's wife?"

"I won't just be his wife. I'll still be me."

"Yes, but when you fight it won't just be an engagement at risk anymore. It will be your marriage and the future of the Art in our family that depend on you, on both of you."

"Don't worry, Sister," said Akane. "I won't let Father down."

"But there are circumstances where you should let Father down, given the chance."

Let Father down? But the engagement! Years for which their fathers, both of them, had planned. If she could satisfy both families' dreams, why wouldn't she?

"I don't understand."

"There's no dishonor in refusing to marry someone you're not willing to love," said Kasumi. "No matter what Father says about uniting the schools, you still have a choice. As often as you and Ranma-kun quarrel with each other, I'd thought things would come to better terms before now."

"It's not what you think, Sister. I'm not doing this just for Father. Ranma and I have an understanding; things are different now."

Kasumi smiled. "That's all I needed to know—that you were happy with this arrangement. Were Mother with us today, I don't know she would approve of everything Father has done, but I'm sure she'd be proud of you, Akane."

The younger sister bowed her head. "Thank you."

Knock-knock. "Sister?" said Nabiki, poking her head through the door. "Can you help us with these curtains for a moment?"

"Of course," said Kasumi. "Akane needs no more of my help."

With that, Kasumi and Nabiki departed, and Akane stood before her mirror, neat and pretty and pristine. Like a doll in a toy store for little girls to play with.

"Hah!" She laughed. "I don't think I'm what Barbie designers had in mind."

Still, she tilted the mirror, studied every seam and embellishment of the dress, her appearance. Something about this image, a picture of grace and beauty, puzzled her. More than her faint inclination toward the kimono. As a children's doll is distorted and out of proportion, so too was her body, short and demure in the gown. Too short and too small, whatever Ranma might say about her figure.

"I'm sixteen," she realized. "Sixteen, and I'm about to be married to a boy I've known for less than a year. What am I doing here?"

Perhaps Kasumi was right—she shouldn't let Father coerce her so easily. "Marry Ranma-kun today," he'd said, "and the cask of Drowned Man water will be waiting for him at your reception." What bribery from her own father! And all the more compelling it was that she'd distracted Ranma from his cure in China. Because he saved her …

… and she saved him. She saved him once, and for her trouble, she emerged from the inferno a dehydrated figurine, mute to the outside world. And Ranma, the fool, risked everything to revive her. If only he could hear her. "Get your cure and go, stupid!" she'd screamed. "You don't have to take me; just leave me here!"

But no, he demanded much of her. The jerk. He ordered her to fight, to cling to whatever faint threads of life she might find.

"Aiya, it hopeless," the guide had said. "Girl no have strength to hold on long enough."

"Hopeless?" said Ranma. "Never! She could hear me; I know she could! He doesn't know you like I do, Akane. I know you. You're strong. You can hold on. Just listen to my voice. I believe in you!"

Typical Ranma, always stubborn, always misunderstanding. If he lacked the good sense to save his own hide, she'd have to do it for him. It wasn't easy. Time drained her spirit, fogged her mind. The outside world dimmed, like a theater with its curtain shroud, and only the object in spotlight shined clear and bright. The center of the world lay at that one light spot.

Ranma.

For him, she flung herself into the fire, not once but twice. Once to die, to save him again and perish in the flames of Saffron's fireball, so Ranma would come to his senses and leave before he perished, but she underestimated him. She and Saffron both did. Ranma only needed a gap, a pocket of cold, to punch a needle through Saffron and slay the Phoenix Lord. Akane would gladly thread the gap for him. Never before could she count herself so instrumental to his victory—not just as a spectator this time. She helped him win.

"Just hold on one more minute!" he said. "I'll get the cold cursed water for you. Then we can be together again!"

Akane closed her eyes. That was the point. That was the reason she could stand here today, prim and proper in her wedding gown. The fires of hell came to Ranma that day. He fought them back for her, and she helped him do it. Given the chance to repay him for his bravery, she quelled her anxieties, silenced her fears.

"What the?" came a voice from downstairs. "What the heck am I wearing?"

Kasumi was right—she wasn't prepared to be Ranma's wife. A wife, certainly, cooks her husband's breakfast without charring the eggs. A wife knows her husband's desires, how to touch him, please him, and make him look with only love in his eyes. Mastering these skills would take time, but she'd learn. Despite curses and rivals and whatever other obstacles might block her way, she'd learn and endure.

_Because Ranma loves me._

Heavy footfalls raced up the ground floor stairwell.

"It's time," she said, beaming at her reflection. She held the bouquet before her, with both hands, and posed for the doorway and the groom-to-be who'd enter there.

"Hello, Ranma," she said. "Do you like my dress?"

#

Lunchtime at Furinkan High. The younger Tendō sisters camped out at the steps from the courtyard to the athletic fields, munching on Kasumi's prepared meals.

"Are you really going to let them stay up there?" asked Nabiki.

Akane scanned her lunchbox, picking at a pile of kidney beans. "Yes."

"But what she did at the wedding—"

"What you let her do."

"It's not my fault that she and the Chinese contingent made their last stand."

"You mean you didn't expect it."

"Nope! But it looks like the betting pools did. Do you think I should get involved in that? I mean, the money looks good, but it seems like seedy, underhanded business, not fit for any respectable person."

Akane frowned, holding a clump of rice in her chopsticks. "I think it's perfect for you, Sister."

Nabiki smirked. "Now now, no need to be snide. If I knew you were going to be crabby, I'd eat my lunch with Kunō-chan. At least then I'd make a profit over recess."

"Whose pictures would you sell, mine or Ranma's?"

"A healthy mix of both. You see, our dearly perverted kendo captain approaches his love the way a samurai trains for battle. Each act of will must be repeated and perfected—vigorously, I might add."

"And you know this because…?"

"Oh, his sister told me."

"In exchange for what?"

"Snapshots of Ranma-kun. Male, of course."

"Oh of course."

Nabiki raised an eyebrow. "Come now, Akane, it's not like you to sit pouting with your sister during lunch. Shouldn't you join your friends or something?"

At the other end of the courtyard, Yuka, Sayuri, and the rest of the class's girls crowded under a tree and giggled.

"No," said Akane, "they're all too interested in me and Ranma, in what happened at Jusenkyō."

"Funny," said Nabiki. "Come to think of it I don't even know what happened. When I asked Uncle, he started talking about Shampoo controlling his mind. Wait, don't tell me that really happened."

"I won't tell you."

"Hmm, interesting." Nabiki stroked her chin, considering the possibilities. "You don't know where I can get one of those, do you?"

"Mount Phoenix, Qinghai Province."

"Clever. Now, while I do that and make a fortune off brainwashing the family to be my obedient secretaries and spies—"

"Even Kasumi?"

"I love our sister dearly, so I don't feel too terrible saying it, but would brainwashing Sister make all that much of a difference? Even if the likes of Shampoo controlled her mind, she'd only wreak havoc with that blank, placid look on her face, like she does when she mops the kitchen."

Akane stared.

"You don't think Sister would be dangerous with a mop?"

Akane scoffed. Kasumi was the daughter of a martial artist, after all, and most of the artists in Nerima wielded some sort of signature weapon. Shampoo and her bulbous chúi, Kodachi and her gymnast's ribbon …

Ukyō and her battle spatula.

From the rooftop, gray smoke plumed skyward.

"She cooks for him at school, too?" said Nabiki.

"It's natural," said Akane.

"Oh yes, I'm sure it is. What's not natural is that my little sister is letting her fiancé be alone with his other fiancée."

"She's his friend. I'm not going to stand in the way of that."

Nabiki grinned, wagging a finger at her. "You'd only say that if you were fighting with him."

"Ranma and I aren't—"

"Or if you weren't."

Akane shuddered.

"It's my business to know these things, to hear rumors: that a few second-years met a 'girl' in the boys' bathroom this morning … or that you and Ranma-kun were kissing, as girls!"

"We did no such thing!"

"You see, that's what I first thought, too. There's no way my little sister would engage in such a scandalous public display, much less with a fiancé she espouses no love for."

Akane dug her chopsticks in her rice. "Sister, what's your angle here?"

"I'm just saying that under normal conditions, you wouldn't let Ranma-kun consort with Kuonji or Shampoo or anyone else so trivially. Perhaps you no longer like him?"

"Who ever said—"

"Or you've given up on him."

"Why should I—"

"Or you think you've already won."

Akane scoffed. "Ranma's not a trophy."

"So you _have_ won him."

"I didn't say that." Akane looked downward, studying her lunch. "What's it to you? You helped them ruin the wedding. Don't tell me you're trying to make up for it."

Nabiki gaped. "But little sister! Do you really think me so heartless, so conniving that—"

"Yes."

The elder sister narrowed her eyes. "Well, that's to be expected, isn't it. Still, like I said, I didn't expect Kuonji and Shampoo's attack. If I did, I'd have done things differently. Perhaps in the future it'd be best to put the time of the reception on the invitations. That would work, wouldn't it?"

"That's not the point."

"True, but if you'd told me you loved him …" She frowned. "You're not pregnant, are you?"

"WHAT?"

"Because that _would_ change things. We'd have to make a nursery, for starters. Does Father know? Oh, no, of course he doesn't. Then he wouldn't have to bribe you with the water, now would he? I wonder how much this will sell for!"

"Sister! I'm not pregnant!"

The students in the courtyard stared.

"It's all right!" Nabiki pulled a cassette recorder from her purse. "Recordings will be on sale after school, just 1000 yen!"

Akane scowled, tapping her foot on the concrete. "Sister …"

"It's fundraising," said Nabiki. "How do you expect us to pay for those dojo repairs?"

"Father's city council position?"

"Because city government pays well. Hah, no. But that's off topic. What I _am_ trying to say is that if you'd confided in me, I would've done everything in my power to see you and Ranma-kun wed."

"Really?"

"Of course. Though we both know he can be rude, irritating, and downright dense—"

"For starters."

"But he does have his charming moments, yes?"

Akane closed her eyes, recalling the morning's events. He defended her from Shampoo and walked beside her on the way to school. He held her in the hallway, and thanks to the blessing of the gods, not an unkind word found his tongue. He relished their embrace, however fleeting, just as she did.

"Yes," said Akane.

"Besides, if you two get along more, it'll be a lot better for my education fund. University of Tokyo's business school isn't cheap, you know."

_Why am I not surprised._

"But if Ranma-kun is really yours now, why is he on the rooftop with Kuonji?"

"He's explaining what happened. Ukyō's his friend; she deserved to know, and from him, not from me."

"This was his idea, wasn't it?"

Akane nodded.

"I should've known. Ranma-kun thinks he can handle Kuonji, does he?"

"I don't know if _handle_ is the right word. Ranma's just going to tell her about China and why we were holding hands this morning."

"Holding hands? How scandalous! That's tantamount to getting tagged halfway down the first base line."

"Pardon?"

"Never mind," said Nabiki, sipping a bottle of water. "You're not prepared to understand."

"Oh, so since you're an expert, is pressing my chest against his while he's a girl a double?"

Nabiki coughed, capping the bottle and covering her mouth. Still, she turned to her sister and raised both eyebrows.

"Stop that," said Akane. "I'm not a pervert. You started it."

"Perhaps Ranma-kun's deviant tendencies have _rubbed_ off on you?"

Akane groaned. "He's not really like that."

"Oh, next thing you'll tell me is that he's not wishy-washy when it comes to women."

"He isn't! Shampoo came up to us today, and he turned her away."

"But as you said, Kuonji's a childhood friend of his. I can see her begging and pleading with him right now. 'Don't do this to me!' she'll say. 'I spent ten years of my life waiting for you! You can't abandon me for _her_.' That's what she'll say, and Ranma-kun will show her compassion like the fundamentally good person he is—because he _is_ a nice boy, however misguided he may be from years in the wilderness with Uncle. He'll bend to her pleas, and you'll be no better off than before."

"Ranma's not that weak."

"Oh? By all means, prove me wrong."

"Maybe I will!"

"Then have at it." Nabiki tossed the cassette recorder into her lap. "Show me the proof, and I'll happily recant. I can wish you both a long and prosperous marriage, knowing he's as dedicated as you say. It'll give me peace of mind."

"You'll see, Sister."

"I'm sure I will."

With that, Akane set aside her lunchbox and made off with the tape player. _Sister just doesn't understand_, she thought, slipping into the building. _She didn't see Ranma beat Saffron. She doesn't know how driven he can be, when he wants to be._ Akane clenched the tape recorder in her hands, confirming her certainty.

_Wait. She gave me a tape recorder …_

She stopped at a stairwell. If Akane taped Ranma and Ukyō's conversation, if she presented it to Nabiki as proof of Ranma's fidelity to Akane, wouldn't the other girls find this evidence intensely interesting? Wouldn't they pay gross sums of money to hear it for themselves?

_Sister tricked me! Again! _

She raced to the courtyard door.

"Here we are, three-fourths of a lunchbox, only 500 yen! Somebody has to be hungry!"

Such was the skill of Tendō Nabiki, for Akane could only wonder—had her sister's cryptic conversation all been for Akane's lunch or taped evidence of Ranma's confused love life?

_Probably both._

Stomach rumbling, Akane hovered at the doorway and scanned the line of the rooftop. Difficult indeed this day had proved, since their encounter with Shampoo to the hours of morning class, stuck between her classmates' curious gazes, Ukyō's stern stares, and Ranma's panicked glances. In that, at least, Nabiki had been right: Ranma may have reveled in the attention three girls would drown him in (those three being Ukyō, Shampoo, and Kodachi), but he lacked any real experience with the female persuasion, outside of himself. Akane made sure of that, for every time they hugged him, touched him, caressed him, Akane lost. She lost time with Ranma. She lost to their charms and physiques.

She lost herself to fear. At least when she denied all sentiment toward Ranma, she could conceal her disappointment when he wandered off with another fianceé—an easy feat in school, where her uniform protected her, made her blend in with the other girls. Clad in a wedding dress, when moments before she relished the thought of marrying him, such denials escaped her.

"I'm sure I didn't say it out loud!" he'd said. "I didn't! No way!"

_But if you hadn't, Ranma, I wouldn't be here. You called to _me_. You made me find the strength to open my eyes and smile. If it weren't for that, I don't know if I'd have come back or not._

But why would he deny it? To "pretend" he felt nothing, as so often they'd done? To escape the wedding? What did it matter he thought he hadn't said it aloud? If he said it to himself, wasn't that enough?

No, of course not. What you say to someone, what you make the effort to put into words, matters. It's not enough just to think them, for the mind can deceive, and the luxury of thought insulates you from confronting those emotions.

"Ranma, I love …"

The halls echoed her, and the sound faded to stillness. Perhaps no one but the halls would understand her. Well, strike that—Nabiki may have understood her _too_ well, but for advice and compassion, the middle sister's thoughts demanded a high price, whether in money or swallowed pride. And, in her own way, Kasumi showed she knew Akane's heart as well: she saw through the preparations, and like a big sister should, she looked out for Akane's interests in the wedding, protecting her from their father if need be.

But gods only knew Kasumi had given too much for their family, put her own life on hold to stabilize the household after Mother died. Maybe one day she would forgo her family's wellbeing and pay attention to the nice chiropractor down the road, but Ranma and Akane hadn't made life easy for her, and a sister's attention, however boundless, is still something best preserved, not wasted on the trivial details of adolescent love.

That subject was better explored in the hands of Yuka and Sayuri. They thrived on talk of Akane's love life, however limited it may be, and framed her experiences in the context of romance novels and _shōjo_ manga. "He's insensitive because he likes you," they would say. "Everyone can see it!"

Because liking a guy who has a better girlish figure and won't hesitate to remind makes a lot of sense. No, the girls at school clung to their ideals of love, and they perceived the world in terms of stock plots and characters. Somehow, they warped the tale of Ranma and Akane into a storybook romance. Vicarious yearnings, perhaps, but their distorted vision of reality helped Akane little. How could she change things if, in her friends eyes, their relationship was already the image of perfection?

_Well, this is silly. What do I expect? Everybody has their own lives, their ideas of what love is going to be like. Nabiki is cynical and uses them for gain. Kasumi wants what's best for me, but she's been willing to sacrifice what's good for herself, too. Yuka and Sayuri dream, like I do, of someone who'll whisk them away._

And each would offer their own guidance for Akane's relationship with Ranma, yet Akane trusted none of them, not for cruel intentions or games to play (Nabiki aside). Though Akane often wore her emotions on her fist, she'd seldom put those feelings into words, the words that mean so much when said aloud, for no one would both hear her for who she was and answer her with understanding, not just support.

She needed a friend. A friend, a confidant. Someone to swap stories about dates, who'd say, "Yeah, he tried to kiss me last night, and we hit our foreheads because neither of us knew what to do. Can you believe it?" Someone who'd agree with her when Ranma opened his insensitive mouth but would temper Akane's anger anyway, lest it burn her out and leave her miserable.

Funny thing was Akane almost had that friend in Ranma. Though months of chaos obscured the memory, Akane never forgot the rainy morning when, instead of a handsome boy that Nabiki and Kasumi hoped to marry, a shy, quiet girl entered the house and wrung the water from her pigtail. A guest in their home, and all Nabiki could do was grope the poor girl and complain about how _he_ was a _she_.

Such mistreatment inspired Akane to act. "Hey, join me in the dojo?" she asked their visitor. "I'm Akane. Want to be friends?"

It was the first time she saw him smile.

In the weeks the passed, Akane pondered that day with mixed feelings. She resented him for leading her on, for pretending to be a girl, for _acting_ like a girl when he could've, at any time, asserted his true gender and not deceived her so. This she fervently believed until, in a moment of anger and weakness, she gave Ranma away to Nabiki. The next morning, the pervert parade, eager to defeat her for a date, ambushed her in the courtyard, and though she punted them all in a single kick, the girls in class were quick to comment on the affair.

"Well," they said, "Akane's back to hating boys again."

A slight exaggeration, perhaps. At least Ranma'd been good for scaring them away. All misandry aside, though, the casual, offhand remark reminded her of her old self, the one from before Ranma's time, the one who punched a hole in the dojo wall as Ranma hopped over her and tapped her politely on the back of the head. Stunned into laughter, Akane could only praise her opponent.

"You're pretty good," she'd said. "Well, I'm glad you're just a girl."

"Eh?"

"It's just … I'd really hate to lose to a boy!"

The pigtailed girl said nothing. How could she? What could she say? "Well, I really am a guy"?

_Maybe he hoped we wouldn't find out._

From then on, Akane forgave his deception. Were she herself cursed, she might've done the same as he did. Still, this change of heart quelled not her musings. What if he'd been a girl all along? Living under the same roof as they did, they'd become good friends, right? Just as she and this boy of hers had fallen in love?

Therein lay the paradox. Ranma couldn't be both of these things. A friend she could admit her feelings to, but Ranma? Not a chance. In her mind, he laughed at her confessions. "I knew you couldn't resist me!" he'd say. "But why should I marry a dumb tomboy like you? You don't have any skills. You're not cute."

And even with his bold declaration of love fresh in her mind, Akane had no answer to those fears. Why should he love her? She risked her life for him, but so could her rivals, and more than that they'd come out unscathed for it. She throttled him to quell her own insecurities, yet each punch and kick proved her unworthiness. What would her friend—the short, shy girl from the rain—say about this?

"It doesn't matter why he loves you." In the hallway, the pigtailed girl brushed water from her hair and smiled. "It doesn't matter why _I_ love you; you're not going to understand it all the way, and I can tell you I don't either, but I love you anyway. You know that."

Knowing is one thing, though. Akane tiptoed to the window, overlooking the courtyard. Down below, the girls passed around magazines and giggled, and Nabiki peddled Polaroid snapshots for coins and bills. At the far end of campus, some boys kicked around a soccer ball, and little Ninomiya Hinako chased a panty thief from the locker rooms. The school was alive, but Ranma, its heart, was nowhere to be found.

_He's still talking to Ukyō._

It shouldn't take so long to make things clear, should it?

The image of the pigtailed girl joined her at the window. "I know you love me, but do you trust me?"

Trust. That's what it all came down to, yet the mistress of distrust, her own sister Nabiki, couldn't be more right when it came to Ranma. "Ranma-kun will show her compassion like the fundamentally good person he is …. He'll bend to her pleas, and you'll be no better off than before."

"I can tell her _no_," said the image of Ranma.

_Maybe you can._ But Akane thought back to the morning, how they walked around the corner—when Ranma spotted Ukyō, he dropped Akane's hand. He'd let her go rather than have Ukyō catch a fleeting glimpse of their happiness.

She drifted from the window and fingered the door to the stairwell.

"Do you trust me or don't you?"

_Of course I do, Ranma. I love you._

"It's a lot easier to think than to say, isn't it."

Akane nodded. She turned the knob and ascended the stairs, bound for the rooftop.

#

When the Phoenix people came to Nerima, those cursed at Jusenkyō—Ranma, Shampoo, Mousse, and Ryōga—split the map of the springs to thwart them. Keema and her lieutenants, in turn, brainwashed Shampoo in a surikomi egg, making her Keema's obedient servant. With the map in hand, Keema flew back to Mount Phoenix and took Shampoo with her. Akane was never meant to be involved.

And Ukyō never was.

Ranma imagined her reaction to his return. Indeed, he'd come home safe from China, even if he hadn't come back cured, but now, the meddling fathers wished Ranma and Akane wed. A wedding she could dismiss as a stunt, but what if her beloved Ranchan wasn't a pawn in this? What if he wanted to marry her—Akane, not Ukyō?

Lunchtime at Furinkan High, and two childhood friends camped out on the rooftop, watching the festivities of their classmates below.

Ukyō clenched the railing. A stern expression crossed her face, like the one she wore when she arrived in Nerima—intense, almost cold. Such a sentiment Ranma hadn't seen from her since they came to terms and, to his dismay, renewed their engagement. He was grateful to see an old friend, but even then, the circumstances gave him pause.

And even more so now. Ukyō's brooding worried Ranma, for a girl with time to stir her fears and anxieties in the crock pot of the mind usually smothered him in the resulting concoction.

But, rather than lay into him, Ukyō's sour mood softened. "Well, I should set up the grill, don't you think? It'd be a shame to waste all of lunch up here with nothing to eat."

"Uh, sure, if you like."

"First things first, then." Ukyō laid out her portable griddle and poured a cup of water on the hot plate. "I know you don't like being a girl at school."

"Thanks, Ucchan."

"Of course. Anything for you, Ranchan."

Eying the grill, Ranma wondered just what "anything" might mean. In the context of his fiancées, some would do anything and everything for him. Kodachi would poison and paralyze whole armies. Shampoo would crush any obstacle in her path, or so she'd said. And Ukyō? She'd attack his wedding, lob okonomiyaki bombs over the reception. But unlike Kodachi, she didn't try to marry him on the spot then and there, and unlike Shampoo, she knew not what happened in China. If she'd known, she never would've, never should've, endangered …

He shuddered. _That's not what this is about._

"Water's ready."

"Oh, thanks." Ranma overturned the pot, dousing himself in hot water. He shook out his limbs, longer and more muscular than before. "Here you go."

Batter sizzled on the skillet. "You want the usual?"

"Ucchan—"

"It's funny," she said, scraping a spatula on the grill surface. "When I went home after the wedding, I found a line outside the restaurant. They were guests, but since there was no ceremony or reception, they had nothing to eat."

"I guess that kind of works out then."

"It did, for a while. There were so many of them I could hardly keep up. None of them really knew what happened, though. They all got there after the place was trashed."

"You didn't tell them?"

"Oh, I did. I told them everything. I told them how I met with Shampoo on the way to the reception. We didn't say a word, but we looked at each other's gifts, and we knew. I told everyone there I crashed the wedding, that I'd do it again because you're just as much my fiancé as you are hers."

Ranma winced.

"So they left."

"They left?"

She nodded. "When I came home, there was a line outside my door. When I was done telling them what happened, every chair was empty. Mostly girls, I think. They dragged their boyfriends out, and once people started leaving, everyone else followed." She laughed. "They didn't even pay."

"I don't understand."

"I didn't either. I didn't until I woke up this morning, and a brick flew through my upstairs window."

"Ucchan!"

"That's why I was almost late. They tied a note to it that said I should go back to the Tendō dojo and finish what I started."

"They're not serious!"

She cocked her head. "They're not? Look down below, Ranchan. What do you see?"

Ranma peered over the railing, at the students who enjoyed their lunches on the courtyard lawn.

"They're watching us—Akane-chan's friends. They've been watching you and me and her all day."

Sure enough, Yuka and Sayuri and a half-dozen other girls sat in a circle, nibbling their lunches. Even from this high vantage point, Ranma met their gazes, their eyes clear and stony.

"They know we're still up here," said Ranma.

"They're her friends," said Ukyō. "It's natural that they're on her side."

"I didn't know we were taking sides."

"Of course there are sides. It's either me or her. You can't marry both of us."

"Not in this country, anyway."

"What?"

"Nothing!"

Ukyō eyed him for a moment. "Well, I'm not blind. Something happened between the two of you in China."

He flinched. "Shampoo told you?"

"No, but now you have."

Girls. Never doubt they can outsmart you.

"What happened, Ranchan? What did she do to seduce you?"

"Whoa, whoa, _seduce_?"

"If she tempted you and you couldn't help yourself—"

"Ucchan, please. Remember who we're talking about here. The only thing Akane could seduce is pork-for-brains when he's snuggled against her chest."

"Who?"

"Ah, nothing, nothing! You didn't hear that."

Ukyō blinked. "Right. So you're saying she didn't—"

"I would never—"

"Then it must be me."

She tossed him the finished okonomiyaki—an ornate, decorated masterpiece, rich with toppings and sauce.

"It's perfect, you know," she said. "The best I've ever made."

Ranma sniffed the crust. "It smells delicious."

"Oh, I'm sure it is." She tapped her spatula on the empty hot plate. "You know what's wrong with it?"

"No, I thought it was perfect?"

"You're going to eat it, and it'll be gone. Even though it's the best okonomiyaki you'll have ever had, you won't remember it tomorrow or the next day. I'll remember it as a triumph, but I'll have nowhere to go with that. There's nothing to learn from a perfect okonomiyaki. It's from the flaws, the conflicts, the clash between spice and sauce that you remember. It's what makes me come back to the grill and try again. As much as I love what I do, what's the point if I think I've done it perfectly?"

"I don't understand."

She smiled. "Of course you don't. It's why you love her, isn't it? You never needed to convince me to love you."

Ranma inched to the railing again, where, down below, Akane's circle of friends munched and gossiped without her. Were she there he'd smile, wouldn't he? Or would he love Akane as much if those rare moments of joy between them became droll and commonplace?

He shook himself. He had no way of knowing the future, only the present, only the feelings he had now. Without the time to find out, how could he know if he and Akane would work as a couple? What would Ukyō do while he took the time to find out?

He could tell her the truth, that he loved Akane, not her, and shatter her heart on the classroom floor. The bruises from her combat spatula would fade in time. Ukyō, for all her worth and prowess as both a chef and a martial artist, would never defeat him in battle. Ranma dreaded fighting her again more than the aftermath of such a bout, for it would symbolize the end of their friendship. Ukyō came to Nerima looking for vengeance, and if Ranma rejected her for Akane, the best she could do was leave the same way.

Not a chance. If they fought again, the bruises would linger, beneath the skin, far after they'd healed.

Of course, he could pretend, like he and Akane had done so far. If they acted like nothing happened in front of others, they might get the space to breathe, to explore their relationship, to be—he laughed inwardly—boyfriend and girlfriend. And maybe Ukyō would believe him. She'd been around long enough. One good fight between him and Akane might convince Ukyō that whatever happened in China was of no consequence.

Great. Fight the girl you don't love to throw her away. Fight the girl you do love to keep the other around. That makes a lot of sense.

Still, he wouldn't forsake Ukyō, not just yet. Crushing Ukyō's spirit now would do nothing to help them.

"Akane and I didn't do anything in China," he said. "That's the truth."

"You're lying. I saw you; you held her hand!"

Admittedly this plan wasn't every well thought out. "I didn't do it on purpose!"

Ukyō narrowed her eyes. "So it was just an accident. Ranchan, don't patronize me. If she's holding something over you, I'll make her pay!"

Make her pay? Strike her down and hold her at the sharpened edge of a spatula? That kind of "make her pay"?

The metal railing crunched and crumpled in his hands. Eyes wide, Ukyō backpedaled, perplexed.

"Ranchan—"

"You won't touch her, Ucchan," he said, chucking the remains of the piping on the ground. "You have no reason to. We didn't do anything; I promise."

The okonomiyaki chef eyed the warped metal. "Of course. I shouldn't have suggested otherwise. Come tomorrow, everything will be back to normal, yeah?"

He nodded.

"Well, I should get out—er, I should make sure Konatsu's getting the shop ready for the after school crowd. See you later."

"See you."

Ukyō inched around him to the roof stairs, and the door banged on its hinges behind her.

Ranma closed his eyes.

"I'll make her pay!" she'd said. "If she's holding something over you, I'll make her pay!"

No matter now, though. Ukyō seemed to take him at his word. If he had to lie a thousand times to keep the mistakes of the wedding from happening again, so be it.

Still, the sheared railing lay on the rooftop. Like putty he'd molded it in his hands, crushed it without thinking. In vain, he tried to put it back in place, but the bent pieces fit their posts no longer. With a sigh, he leapt from the roof and hopped from tree branches to the earth below.

And from her hiding place behind the stairwell exit, Tendō Akane followed Ukyō downstairs, to the courtyard.

#

" 'Nothing happened.' "

At the edge of the soccer fields, Akane huddled on the bleachers and sulked. Her stomach howled for food, and Ukyō's grill had only exacerbated her hunger pains. "I can give you half the proceeds from today's sales," Nabiki had said. "How's that sound?"

It sounded like garbage, and Akane all but told her so. With a few scarce minutes in lunch recess left, she watched a group of third-year boys march down the field and hammer the ball into the net with passing interest, if that.

And beside her, the pigtailed girl, her imaginary best friend for the day, reached out to comfort her. "Akane—"

" 'Nothing happened,' he says!"

"You know you're not being fair."

Not being fair? Who was he … she … oh damn this contrived gender confusion. What was the point with entirely imagined constructs like _her_ anyway?

Akane tapped her temple and sighed. "At least you can tell me I'm not doing right by him."

"You shouldn't have gone."

"I know."

"So why did you?"

"He let her get the best of him. Sister was right; she knew it would happen."

"You know it's more complicated."

"Is it? How? Explain it to me."

"It's … well … I don't know how, but it is, and you should talk to me instead of sitting here fuming."

"And tell him I was spying on him?"

"It was your idea."

"I can't do that!"

The pigtailed girl shrugged. "You reap what you sow."

An apt saying, but was it true? Time and again, Akane punished Ranma, abused him for mere slights and transgressions. She doused him with water when Shampoo crept into his bed, so the Amazon would murder the girl who'd defeated her. She forced him into girl's clothes while his mother visited to get back at him for insulting her bust. She donned the battle suit and beat him silly, beat him when he had no chance of scratching her.

And not once did these acts of payback feel unjust or unfair. He deserved them, surely. He betrayed her, insulted her, outright manipulated her. She should be the one in his bed, not Shampoo! She was trying to be a woman for him, and he showed no appreciation for it! He told her he liked her, and she quelled her guarded skepticism. She let herself love. For cracking that dam of emotions with deception, he would _die_.

Yet somehow, he loved her, despite her weakness, her anger. Something about her he liked, if only she knew what it was.

"I'm with you all the time, Akane," said the voice in her mind, the pigtailed girl. "I like you because you're you. I have my flaws, too, but you overlook them."

"No I don't."

"You do when it counts."

"That's not all the time. That's not even most of the time."

"Akane …" The pigtailed girl shook her head, disappointed. Not with Akane's indiscretions, for those she forgave, a thousand times over now. Rather, she mourned Akane's insecurity, her fear. She mourned because she was part of Akane, too.

"Who you talking to?" At the base of the bleachers, Shampoo cocked her head, hands behind her back.

"No one," said Akane, wiping the dirt off the empty stands. "What are you doing here?"

"Shampoo look for Ranma. You know where Ranma gone?"

"Nope."

The Amazon tapped her foot, frowning. "Is unusual for you, to not know where Ranma go, yes?"

Akane rolled her eyes. Shampoo's persistence was limitless, it seemed. Even in China, brainwashed to serve Saffron, Shampoo came on to Ranma, threatened Akane's life to "make sweet memories" with him.

_I know I've done a lot of crazy things because of Ranma, but let me never be _that_ crazy._

To his credit, Ranma resisted temptation. He convinced Shampoo to unbutton her shirt … and stole the surikomi eggs she hid there, capturing her. Even as a doll, Akane saw clearly—not once did he cherish Shampoo's body or caress her flesh. He turned around Shampoo's manipulations and used her to protect Akane.

The Amazon huffed, glaring. "Akane ignore Shampoo?"

"I told you I don't know where Ranma is. What more do you want?"

"Is fine if Ranma not here. Is better." She smirked. "Shampoo come to see Akane."

"I'm not marrying you, either."

"Akane being too too familiar with husband."

"He's not your husband."

"He _is_, whether you like or not. By tribal law he is."

"Good for your tribe. We don't really care."

"Ranma almost die saving you from Saffron."

Akane flinched. "Excuse me?"

"If not for you, Ranma, Mousse, and Ryōga just wait for Saffron take his bath and move along. Keema and others have no use for Shampoo once Saffron transform."

"They still had to save you; you're the one who got mind-controlled."

"Phoenix people catch Shampoo unaware. Is not Shampoo fault."

"Yeah, like I expected a flock of birds to break through my window and carry me to China."

Shampoo frowned. "Is beside point. Husband take many chances for Akane. He do much to protect you. You risk his life to be close to him."

"And why is that?"

"Because you no compare to Ranma as martial artist."

"Oh really!"

"Or to me." She turned, watching Akane from the corner of her eye. "You no think so?"

The pigtailed girl climbed off the bleachers, taking position behind Shampoo. "Don't let her bait you. You don't need to fight her to prove anything to me."

"You think I can't take you on?" said Akane.

Shampoo leaned forward, meeting her gaze. "I say we fight for Ranma. Loser give up all claim to him, yes?"

Fight Shampoo. Fight Shampoo and beat her. Hold her against the wall and make her yield, and maybe then Ranma would respect you, respect you enough to spar with you, to train alongside you.

"What you decide?" said Shampoo. "Accept challenge or give up Ranma for good?"

"Akane, don't—"

"Shh!" She raised a hand, silencing the voice from within. Akane rose from the stands and stared Shampoo down. A battle she wanted, and a battle she would get, but there's a prime rule in combat, one that the Anything Goes tradition taught above all else:

_Fight all opponents with honor and respect, but if you can help it, never fight them on their terms._

"You wouldn't fight me if you thought Ranma loved you."

Paling, Shampoo gritted her teeth. "You fight or no?"

"No! I no fight. We can slug each other 'til dusk, but it won't matter. Ranma will choose one of us, not from some stupid contest but from his heart. Believe whatever else you like. Fall back on your laws if you must, but know this, Shampoo: _you don't have his heart._"

The Amazon trembled, speechless, seething.

"Now, I have class to get to," said Akane, hopping off the bleachers. "Excuse me." She trotted to the building, and under the safety of shade, she grinned like a loon.

"That was bold," said her inner voice. "Bold, but it paid off."

_I still say I could take her._

"But you're weak; you're still recovering. You shouldn't take that chance."

"Akane!"

The pigtailed girl winced. "But you'll have to."

Shampoo marched up the path, wielding her twin chúi.

"What do you want?" said Akane.

"Shampoo make challenge. You no can refuse."

Akane fingered the latch to the entrance door. "I think I just did."

A cold metal sphere brushed the back of her neck. "If Akane no fight, then Shampoo make her fight," said the Amazon. "You give up Ranma if lose or no?"

"But I—"

"Decide, now!"

A cold chill of panic raced down Akane's spine. She turned, backing herself against the door, stuck between stainless steel on one side and a bone-crushing ball of metal on the other. _There's no way to __move, not fast enough to keep my head from being bashed in! _

"Shampoo? Akane-chan?" Kuonji Ukyō jogged into view. "What's the meaning of this?"

"Is not concern of spatula girl. Akane refuse challenge she no can ignore. If no fight fair, only one way left now." Shampoo touched the sphere to Akane's forehead.

And pressed.

A dull ache rattled Akane's skull.

"The wedding was one thing," said Ukyō, drawing her spatula, "but this is different! This is school!"

"Is same as wedding," said Shampoo. "We no can fight for Ranma only where we want. No can stop for school or chapel. Shampoo fight for Ranma. Shampoo fight every obstacle, no matter what." She arched her arm overhead, bringing her full weight and strength on the point of contact.

The ache throbbed and intensified. The schoolyard twisted and dissolved. The ball grew to enormous proportions, enveloping Akane's sight.

"No struggle, Akane," said Shampoo, smirking. "In my tribe, weak girls learn quick; they no struggle. They accept defeat."

She flailed; she gripped the handle!

WHAM! The second mace smashed her hand into the door. Only her left fought for control of the handle.

"You no struggle! You struggle, and Shampoo kill you much painfully! Shampoo beat you and crush your heart! Much more painful than this!"

More painful than this? More painful than feeling the bones in your head warp and bend under pressure? Than listening for the sharp, sudden snap of stress fracture?

She tugged on the handle with her free left hand: a futile gesture, a token level of resistance, for Shampoo possessed every advantage in the situation. She carried her weight evenly. Her long arms distanced her from Akane's grasps and clawings. Taller and stronger, she dominated, and how could Akane resist her?

_Too weak,_ thought Akane. _I can't fight her head on._

She looked past her attacker, to the growing crowd of spectators, most of them helpless to do anything. Most of them, except … "Ukyō!"

She twitched, startled.

"Do something!" said Akane.

Shampoo twirled her second club and pointed it back. "Ukyō come no closer, or I kill Akane right now!"

Ukyō brought her spatula to bear, but still she wavered, her eyes drifting between Shampoo and Akane.

Shampoo turned back, to Akane. She inched the end of one sphere to the handle of the other.

Tap.

BANG! The impact boomed through her skull like a wrecking ball to her head. Shampoo tapped like a chef hits a fork to an egg: any harder, and the shell would crack, and the hot, runny yolk would seep from the wound. Akane choked, biting her tongue, and it was only for that that no one heard her scream.

Shampoo raised the ball and stick overhead. "What happen yesterday not enough to make Ranma love anyone else. As long as Akane around, Ranma only love her. That why Akane no should lived at Jusenkyō. That why Akane no should live now!"

"Yah!"

Clink, clink.

Akane dropped to the sidewalk, freed from the pressure that pinned her. She shuddered and panted, rubbing her head.

A metal sphere on a stick rolled atop the concrete.

"No!" said Shampoo. "Is not what it look—"

A high-pitched, unnatural cry. Before Akane stood Shampoo, proud Amazon warrior, but before her opponent, she trembled, quivered. Her arm twisted outward, like a piece of wood torqued in a vice.

"Please! Shampoo can explain!"

Twist. Like oil from a rag, tears dripped from her face, and each degree of turn squeezed another droplet out of her. Soon she would run dry and snap.

And Ranma would be the one to break her. With her outstretched arm, he turned her wrist over, and muscle bulged against bone. He squeezed, and the skin of her knuckles turned white … then blue.

Akane circled the pair, trying to catch Ranma's gaze. "That's enough!" she said. "You've made your point already! Dolt! Moron!"

But his eyes ignored her. They fixated on the point of contact, where he gripped Shampoo and controlled her.

"Ranma?"

Shampoo's arm relaxed. She fell to her knees; she surrendered, but Ranma's hold on her remained. Like a puppetmaster handles his strings he held on. Though Shampoo gave in, the tension in his arm shook him, unwilling to be denied.

"Stop this, Ranma."

Just a little further now. Yes, another degree or two and the bones would shatter. This arm of Shampoo's would never threaten Akane again.

"Ranma, stop!"

Blink, blink. His eyes focused. They snapped to her but wandered the school grounds, lost among these familiar places.

"I'm all right," said Akane. "You can let Shampoo go now."

Shampoo's wrist, welted and blue, fell to her side. With her good hand, Shampoo picked herself up and staggered away.

Ranma stared at his own fingers. He flexed them, wiggled them. They responded, but who could say what he expected them to do. His gaze was bright yet hollow, like a child lost in the woods.

A circle of spectators mumbled amongst themselves. Prime among them, Ukyō strapped her battle spatula to her back, but the distance between her and Ranma was great indeed.

_They shouldn't see him like this._ Akane marched forth, taking attention off him. "Everyone, back to your classes!" she said. "Or do you want to hold buckets in the hall?"

The crowd dispersed, of course, and after a fashion, Ukyō moved on too, but her concerned, yearning looks lingered there, far after she'd gone.

"Come on, Ranma," said Akane, taking him by the arm. "Let's go to class, yeah?"

A nod. "Sure."

Hand in hand, Akane and Ranma hiked the stairs to their third-floor classroom, and though Akane relished this time alone with him, she had much to ponder. About friends and lovers and imagination. About what makes one weak in the one's own eyes and what builds strength in the eyes of one's beloved.

On the way up the staircase, Akane was careful not to hold his hand too tight.

* * *

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	4. In the Cold Rain III: Sounds of Night

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

* * *

**Sounds of Night**

_Chapter One, Act Three_

TEW! A yellow beam swept across the forest, slicing the trees like a timber saw. WHAM WHAM WHAM!

Ranma ducked and weaved between falling trunks.

"I not know what you do wrong, honored guest!" said the guide, crouching behind a rock. "Visitors seem offended somehow!"

"Oh, you think?"

TEW!

"Move!"

The guide looked up, and another tree trunk teetered and fell.

"I gotcha!" Ranma tackled the guide, and the two rolled clear of the branches, panting on the grass.

"Is incredible what they do," said the guide. "I not see power like this—"

"Since Saffron," said Ranma. "Yeah, I know."

The four strangers fanned out at the tree line. Two men, one tall, one short, spread left and right. A woman, lean and fit, also paced along the edge of the spring grounds. The fourth, the leader, was shorter, with reddish-brown hair. She stayed put, watching.

"I need to get close to them," said Ranma. "Four of them from a distance is like a shootout. Guide, can you make it out of here?"

"My house not far. I go alone."

"And I'll keep them off you."

The guide held his hat and ran through the wounded forest. The strangers spotted him and came together to give chase.

"Oh no you don't!"

BAM! Ranma hopped up and leapt from the trees, landing a soaring kick to the head.

"You wanted a fight?" he said. "Well you got it!"

The enemies scattered, attacked from four sides—punch, kick, slash with a knife or a blade. They dodged and ducked his blows.

_These guys are fast._ Ranma blocked and grabbed his opponent. _Time to see how fast._ He spun the man by the arm and tossed him back at his enemies.

The other three sprang back, giving their comrade a place to land unhurt.

_Pretty good, pretty good. Got me some room. Now let's see if I can get you fired up._

He charged in, let them surround him, but with each cycle of attacks, he cleared a path to his side to maneuver. He led the four in a circle, a tightening spiral. He deadened himself to the flow of adrenaline, suppressed the natural fiery aura that would engulf him during the pressure of combat. These people might be able to throw flame or energy or whatever they wanted to call it at will, but if they knew not this simple trick, they should be disappointed. Nay, they should be ashamed, for this growing funnel, an interplay of hot and cold, would punish them if they didn't.

The leader called out, backpedaled from Ranma, but her colleagues ignored her warning.

_She knows. They don't, and that's okay. Lady, I just turned four-on-one into a fair fight because your people didn't know … or forgot …_

He turned inward, dead center.

Three sets of eyes went wide with horror.

"Gotcha now, guys." He smirked. "Hiryū Shōten Ha!"

CRACK! A single, upward punch shocked the air above them. Hot and cold ki smashed together, and a vortex coalesced. It sucked in three combatants, while Ranma's Soul of Ice grounded him at the eye of the storm, the one clear spot in the jungle where no rain fell and sunlight shone, if only for a moment.

The tornado dissipated.

Thud.

The hole in the clouds sealed itself.

Thud.

Rain dripped off Ranma's face and onto his girl-form's breasts.

Thud. Three bodies cratered the mud around them, prone and unmoving.

_Child's play._

And their leader, their captain, rushed to their aid.

"Why don't you go back where you came from?" said Ranma. "I didn't do anything you to. Not that I know about anyway."

The captain snarled.

"You do understand me, don't you."

She moved from body to body, to no avail.

"So tell me," said Ranma. "What do you want?"

The captain held her arm straight, toward one of her men, and a ray of light formed between them. Twice over she repeated this, with her other two partners, and despite the rain, she glowed. Power radiated from her body and dried the water on her skin.

_Oh, crap._

TEW! The beam launched Ranma end over end, like a supercharged punch to the gut. He tumbled and hurtled.

_Aw, this is going to—_

BANG! He crunched through a tree, like being a baseball smacked for a five-hundred-foot home run.

BANG! And another.

THUD! And a hard landing, on rocky ground.

"Ow…."

The ringing in his head drowned out the downpour. His head throbbed, almost musically, like a steady bass beat.

_I guess that's good. If it weren't steady, I'd be in trouble._

He pressed his hand to his head. The palm came back bloody.

"Oh great. Where's—"

The captain jogged toward him, still weaving through the trees.

_I've got to go. Can't stay here, can't fight that … that thing out there._

He gritted his teeth and darted through the brush, and falling logs crashed behind him.

_I ain't afraid of you! _

TEW!

_I've just got to run until I know what to do._

#

"I had it under control."

Ranma scoffed.

"I did!" said Akane. "If you hadn't butted in, things would've been fine."

"Oh, so now _I'm_ the one butting in."

"You didn't have to make a scene," she said with her back to him.

Didn't have to make a scene? With Shampoo's club about to scatter Akane's brains over the grounds, she really expected him _not to make a scene_?

"Fine!" he said. "Not like I'll miss you if you're gone."

"I'm going ahead now, Ranma."

His skin tingled; his heart numbed. Ranma looked at her, at the brick wall on one side and the canal fence line on the other. Akane stood between him and the way home.

The way to heaven.

"I'll wait for you," she said with a smile.

"No …"

She turned away. Her shoes clicked on the sidewalk.

"Akane, no!"

White light cast her body in shadow, a traced figure, only an outline.

"Don't leave me here alone! Akane!"

Dark, warm, sweaty. Warm and sweaty, yet he shivered, all the same.

Tick-tick-tick. Tick-tick-tick. A small room, black but for the glow-in-the-dark clock on the windowsill. Under these eerie green hues, Saotome Nodoka and Genma snoozed on the futon, but their son sat upright, awake and apart from them.

He panted. He grimaced. He wiped sweat from his brow and dried it on the blanket. With a sigh, he turned the clock face toward him, reading off the time.

"01:30," it said. Half past one, half 'til two. Either way, in scarcely seven hours he'd have to be at school and repeat the nightmare again.

_No thanks._

He lay down. No point in bothering his mother and panda over an unsettling dream. "Every martial artist faces horrors his mind cannot comprehend," Genma would say. "It's a test of strength and resolve to live with them."

_Oh yeah, like the horror of going bald at 30. Real tragedy there, Pop. Not like someone you knew died saving you. Not like someone you loved …_

_Aw hell._ He bounded to his feet, tiptoed past his parents, and slipped through the sliding door. He stopped at the bedroom with the duck-shaped nameplate and rotated the knob.

Creak went the floorboard, but the girl rolled in her bed, oblivious to the visitor.

Ranma dared not approach, lest she catch him in a choke hold. _Sound asleep I guess._

Sound asleep and alive and well. Alive and apparently over her near-death experience. More than Ranma could've hoped for. During the trip back, her sleep cycles hadn't been so peaceful. She'd thrashed and squirmed, opened her mouth to speak, but no sound would come out. Silent she was, like the doll, until the torment of her nightmares passed. Only then, free of these worries, did she beam and grin in her sleep. "Ranma …"

Quite a change from the usual associations that followed his name: pervert, womanizer, idiot. A change like this he could get used to—seeing her smile when she said his name.

He inched the door shut. The solace of sleep eluded him, and given state of mind, it would do so for a good long while. Rather than revisit that street, the path to heaven from his dreams, Ranma crept downstairs. Sleep would not console him, not this night. Thankfully, his time in the wilderness, wandering with his father, had taught him an easy remedy for this problem.

"Let's see here … bread, carrots, lentils … "

Eat something. That usually solves a restless mind. Hungry people dream strange dreams—vivid hallucinations of the past or visions of the future. Rainbows appear in mud puddles; the sky turns yellow, gray, and gold. The dreams stick with you in daylight. You look over a cliff's edge and think maybe, just maybe, you can fly to the bottom, that if you spread your arms, you'll soar. Many a dream like these Ranma tolerated and put to the back of his mind as hunger gripped him and his father. Genma's thievery and deception worked in bursts: large sums of money or food he squandered by week's end. Weekends meant hunger and perverse dreams.

Less so since they came to Nerima, thanks more to Kasumi's culinary skills than, he cringed, Akane's. Gods only knew the girl tried. She just had an uncommon level of … of … whatever it was that made people confuse wine with salad oil or chop _through_ the cutting board while slicing carrots.

She tried really hard. And in her defense, she'd started to get it right. Curry and soup she'd managed not to mangle too terribly, and though Ranma would always taunt her a little for her bungling in the kitchen, he did breathe a little easier, knowing that if she put a plate before him, he needn't say _no_ out of hand and crush her hopes before dessert.

_Oh dear gods don't let her start trying to make desserts._

Back to Akane.

Ranma leaned over the counter, munching a carrot. He may have eaten lightly at dinner, but hunger influenced not his dreams.

Plip. A bead of water dripped from the faucet. Plip.

On the road, it was natural to be self-sufficient. His conniving father hindered their training journey as much as helped. Fellow travelers made passing friends at best, with Ukyō a prominent exception. For the short time they'd settled down and Ranma went to school, his classmates proved distractions from training—especially, in hindsight, Ryōga. This solitude, even when they rejoined civilization, shaped Ranma's unique perspective on humanity. He learned what he could from the masters and practitioners they met, but in the end, these bonds were temporary and faded with the passage of time.

Then the Saotomes returned to Nerima, and Ranma met the most single-minded, angry girl ever conceived. If only she'd choose to be less crabby, she could be pretty cute. Sure, she couldn't hold her own against him in a sparring match. Not many people could. Yet through bravery or foolishness, she risked her life for him, time and again. She ventured into the whirlwind to retrieve Happōsai's moxibustion chart and restore Ranma's strength. She baited the eight-headed serpent and rescued him from its slithering maw. Every time he berated her for her stupidity, her recklessness, and yet he admired her tenacity, for though he trusted his own strength and skill, if he were on her level, would he have the courage to fight? Against impossible odds?

It was a reason to love her, one of the few reasons he understood. He knew her effect on him, how their spats, though confusing, stirred his spirit and made him feel alive. How her blithe smiles exuded boundless warmth and bliss. How, when her anger couldn't protect her from sadness, worry, or fear, he wished most he weren't the cause.

How, when he thought she'd left him, he felt nothing at all.

Plip, plip, plip. The leaky tap dripped water on the stainless steel basin.

On a tap like this one she died. He'd kneeled in the water with Saffron's transformation egg, and her robes—robes that were never hers, that she wore for hours at most—floated into his arms. The heat seared her scent into the cloth, the last trace of life. The scent overwhelmed him, clouded his mind. The commotion of the steaming Dragon Tap, of Saffron's egg, faded away, and Ranma thought only of the future, of a world without Akane.

In Nerima he would stay. He'd go to school, finish his education while Akane's desk sat empty. He'd visit the grave on Sundays and bring her flowers, a kindness he seldom had the heart to spare in life. Maybe he'd marry. In death, she couldn't be jealous of the other girls. She'd bless his efforts to find some joy in life, for she'd wait for him, as he would for her. She'd wait until they could be together in heaven.

Yet while he entertained this vision of the future, he sat defenseless, paralyzed. Saffron's threads spun the Kinjakan, and steaming water flowed forth once more. Ryōga and Mousse, more level-headed than he, rescued him, carried him to the Guide's cliff-side home. And Ryōga, who'd never been shy about his love for Akane except around her, bawled his eyes out. He grieved when they were safe, not before. He grieved openly, and he knew when to mourn her death. But Ranma? He nearly trivialized Akane's sacrifice, and for what? To wallow in a pond for a while, contemplating his misery? Such weakness did not befit a martial artist.

Plip.

To dwell on it only amplified the mistake.

Plip.

Akane came back to him. That's all that mattered.

Plip, plip.

He stared at the faucet, watching the droplets fall.

Plip, plip, plip.

"Ranma! Get ready to make a run for it!"

He jiggled the handle, shutting off the leak. _This sure ain't helping._

And when a midnight snack won't quell the rambling thoughts of a martial artist, there's only one other thing left to do. Ranma ducked out of the kitchen and snuck through the back exit. In quiet of night, he trotted under the covered pathway to the dojo. Months gone by, Shampoo's great-grandmother taught him how to dull his emotions, hold in all combative energies. On the floor of the dojo, he moved with precision and perfect form, cloaking himself, body and soul, in ice. Long had the Art been his only friend and companion; it would not fail him, not when he needed most its order and surety.

He worked through the forms, the _kata_ through which he played out imaginary battles against invisible foes. Punch, thrust, strike, and they fell to his might. This practice honed focus. He recognized attack patterns in his enemies that he conceived of in warm-up exercise, and he followed with their counters on instinct, by rote. The martial artist is an efficient creature. He saves the thinking mind for novel, unique attacks. Against a pattern he's seen before, he body knows the best way to defeat it.

There! In the corner, his opponent twirled her weapon, a simple metal ball on a stick, and raised it overhead.

Run, grab, twist, disarmed. Disarmed and at your mercy. A perfect position. Hold one arm behind her back, where she has no leverage to move it, and turn the other wrist outward, away from her. You press your body into hers; this way, she cannot run or get the spacing needed to kick. She can't fight or flee. You force her down and make her do as you please. And she cries. She begs. She promises, however emptily, that she'll never hurt Akane again.

He shuddered, releasing the death hold he'd made on the air. That was what he wanted, wasn't it? He forced Shampoo to her knees in the schoolyard because she should know better. She should understand, uniquely so, what it meant to attack Akane. She held Akane's doll in her hand; a flick of the thumb would snap its neck. She witnessed Akane's recovery, for she accompanied them all the way back from China, yet still she attacked. She attacked there.

And she wasn't the only one. Ukyō, too, hurled bombs at Akane, yet she knew not what happened in China. She chastised Shampoo for cornering Akane at school, of all places, yet when Shampoo lifted her chúi to strike, what did Ukyō do?

Nothing. She stood there. She made no motion to stop Shampoo, to deflect the club from its target. Maybe Shampoo's boldness stunned her. Perhaps the thought of brash, deliberate violence against a rival, a competitor for Ramna's heart, had never before come to her mind.

Or maybe it had.

But there were more. Beyond Shampoo, beyond Ukyō, there was Saffron, smug and arrogant, a man who gave no thought or regard to the mortals who opposed him. To him, Akane's life was like a mosquito's: trivial, insignificant. He launched fireballs at Ranma, and Akane threw herself in their path. That she survived these hits Saffron found amusing, almost curious. That she expended great effort and will to do so—that his attacks nearly drained her beyond the point of no return or rescue—he lamented blithely, with empty condolences that his real vengeance wasn't meant for her.

Such gall he had, gall that ignited Ranma's spirit and set him aflame with anger. Saffron threatened Akane. Saffron nearly killed her. For this, there would be no mercy, no simple victory or defeat. Saffron would _die_, and Ranma would be the one to kill him.

_I needed to; I _had_ to kill him. There was no other way to stop him, to save Akane._

But with each kick and blow he landed, a wicked sense of joy stirred within him. He was the hand of justice, and Akane was his inspiration, the helpless victim that fueled his revenge. It wasn't just that Saffron needed to die. He _deserved_ to die. He deserved death and nothing else.

Just like Shampoo deserved a shattered arm for daring to threaten Akane.

Just like Ukyō deserved little else than the friendship _he_ would offer her.

They all deserved these fates he handed to them, and yet they all didn't. Saffron died and was reborn. Nothing could change that. Shampoo escaped with mere bruises; who knew when or if she'd try for Akane's life again. And Ukyō would be at school tomorrow, watching him and Akane for any sign of love. To punish them solely for what they'd done to Akane—it wasn't just. He could never be a fair judge when it came to her.

He could never be quite good enough as a martial artist, a fiancé—

BOOM, boom, boom.

… or a man.

Though the open dojo doors, a jagged line of light flickered in the sky. Raindrops smacked the cement and dirt. A torrent of water enveloped Nerima and the Tendō Dojo within it.

A dojo, spotless but for the drops that fell on its front steps. Clean, like it was before the wedding, when the men cursed at Jusenkyō chased the cask of water, with Shampoo and Ukyō's bombs a like cannon shots in percussion to a medley of disaster. Were he a man, he would be wed now. Were he a man, he wouldn't have to dash from the dojo to the covered walkway or brush the rainwater from his hair.

Were he a man, he wouldn't jog back into the house with a girl's body.

And the list of excuses, of why he hadn't cured himself already, was too long to bear. He had school to attend, a fianceé to get to know. He had no money or funds to get back to the mainland, and he had little desire to swim around the Korean Peninsula _again_. And maybe, in the end, this curse of his wasn't so bad. He got free food from time to time. He had the perfect disguise for most occasions. He played with the minds and libidos of weaker men, deriving special pleasure from these games.

Yet finally being half-girl cost him something important. It cost Akane something she wanted, and all because, unwittingly or not, he'd resisted leaving here, this home that'd become the first real home he'd ever known.

He'd resisted leaving her, and it all came back to her in the end.

He trudged upstairs. Being a man could wait until morning.

Creak.

He halted.

Creak.

He turned back, away from his room. He tiptoed down the hall and put his ear to Akane's door.

Boom! Rattle. Ping-ping-ping. Thunder shook the windows, and raindrops ran down the glass.

Creak. The floorboards bent under Ranma's weight.

He sighed. "It's nothing."

Creak, rattle. Ping-ping-ping.

Any number of strange things could hide in this rain. Shampoo with her chúi. Tarō on a mission of vengeance against the old fart. Perhaps, even, a foe more formidable than Saffron. Any one of these things—or something else he couldn't fathom—might put Akane in danger once more.

Ranma trembled. If something happened to her, he'd never forgive himself. If she died, he'd rather die with her. If she ever chose someone else, someone other than him, he'd have no place here, even with his family, his home, just a few blocks down the road. Before Nerima, he was a solitary traveler, he was whole, but now…

_I need her._

He put his back to the door and slid his back down it until he reached the floor. Standing guard here, she would be safe for the night, but not in the morning. The threat that Shampoo, Ukyō, Kodachi—that any girl after him posed to her—was too strong to ignore. They lusted for him, and thus far, he'd done nothing. Nothing to send them away, nothing to show Akane that he'd chosen at last.

Perhaps nothing in his power would end this competition for his heart. How could he tell one of these girls not to love him when he couldn't tell himself…?

They wouldn't listen anyway, but there _was_ something he could do, the least he should've done far too long ago. Never again would he let someone hurt Akane: not Shampoo, not Ukyō, not anyone. He would tell them so, and if they dared defy him, his retribution would be swift, sound, and just, and the girls after him would know where his heart truly lay.

He leaned back, resting against the door. His eyes drooped, weak and weary. _Good night, Akane. Tomorrow, I'm going to make you proud of me._

He closed his eyes.

Creak.

Rattle.

Ping-ping-ping.

* * *

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	5. In the Cold Rain IV: Doubt

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

* * *

**Doubt**

_Chapter One, Act Four_

Such is the capacity of the human spirit: it gives strength enough to answer the call to action, to forget pride and shame. Men and women so possessed perform feats of superhuman might and endurance. They swim miles in frigid waters; they lift whole cars in a single pull. This drive empowers the body, but so too does it embolden the mind. Under these conditions, a man survives the worst psychological tortures—agony, heartbreak, grief.

Or revulsion. Humiliation. The denial of all that you are to accomplish a goal. The willingness to dress in frilly skirts and leggings and smile for a man you cannot stand.

"Kunō-sempai!"

At the gate to the Kunō mansion, a pigtailed girl rang the bell and paced on the sidewalk.

"Come on, come on," she said. "What's taking so long?"

She hobbled to a tree at the corner, her heels clacking on the cement. She looked up, and among the branches, a hiking pack dangled on its straps.

"Well, as long as nobody notices, they shouldn't steal it." She tapped her foot. "Shouldn't."

"Oh! Can it be?" The iron gate swung open. "My darling pigtailed girl! You come to me, at last!"

"Of course, sempai! How can I—"

Kunō glomped the girl, squeezing the wind out of her.

"How can I resist your natural charm and sensitivity."

"Brother dear!" A tall, dark-haired woman trailed in the boy's wake. "Brother dear, who let you out again? Did not the constable mention a restraining order?"

"That only binds us to stay away from Saotome Ranma, Sister," said Kunō. "My pigtailed goddess could not be further from him!"

Kodachi narrowed her eyes. "Have you not noticed? Where she goes, Ranma-sama is sure to be close."

"Please, please!" said the pigtailed girl, squirming in Kunō's embrace. "Let's not talk about strange … boys. I'm here to see sempai!"

"And see me you will, my darling!" said Kunō. "You will see all that is proper!" He glanced down both ends of the street. "… and more if you desire."

"Oh gods, please no."

"Pardon?"

"I mean, if the gods wish it, of course!" She laughed nervously. "But that's not why I wanted to see you."

"You desire something of me?"

"I was hoping we could take a trip!" The pigtailed girl turned in Kunō's arms, facing him. "Just the two of us."

"But what distant land could ever compare with your beauty, your—guh!"

The girl shook out her fist and straightened Kunō's clothes. "Won't you take me to China, sempai? I've always wanted to go."

"China? But why should we go so far away, when my own home—"

She stuffed a brochure in his shirt and smiled. "We can take a dip in the springs."

"Jusenkyō?" said Kunō, reading the pamphlet. "A legendary training ground?" He grinned. "What could be better than a holiday with the pigtailed girl and practicing to defeat Saotome? Oh, my darling, you stir my heart!"

She giggled, averting his gaze.

"If only Tendō Akane would—oof!"

The pigtailed girl cleared her throat.

"Of course, it would be improper to take both of you."

"Brother dear," said Kodachi, "do you think our father will approve of this liberty? I should think he'll sharpen the shears when he learns of this girl's hairstyle. That would be most tragic, yes?"

"He will do no such thing!" said Kunō. "The pigtailed girl and I shall fly at once!"

With that, Kunō dragged Ranma within the grounds of the estate. Bar all expenses and obstacles, they would be in China by day's end, and no one but Kodachi would know until they'd gone.

More importantly, Akane wouldn't know.

With a travel agent on the phone to distract Kunō, Ranma dropped the façade he wore and looked himself in the mirror.

_Such a shame. You are kind of cute, in your own way._

But Ranma welcomed the chance to be rid of her, even if she had served some purpose now and then. The promise of manhood sustained him, even as Kunō held his body in ways that deserved punches, not feminine laughter. Soon, he would be in China, and his mother and Akane and everyone else would get what they'd deserved for so long: a man, a full man, not a compromise or a half-hearted imitation.

Such is the capacity of the human spirit. It gives the strength to board a plane with a fool, to let him touch you when you should break his fingers instead.

#

" 'The logarithm of a number to a given base is the power or exponent to which the base must be raised to produce a number. For example, the logarithm of 1000 to the base 10 is 3, because 3 is the number of 10s that must be multiplied together to get 1000.' "

Akane flipped the page. " '… the logarithm of the product of two numbers is the sum of the logarithms of those numbers. The use of logarithms to facilitate complicated calculations was a significant motivation in their original development.' " She sat back in her chair and sighed. "Great. What does that do for me?"

She nabbed a cookie from a plate and munched, cradling the book between the desk and her lap. One book out of half a dozen. Thanks but for the grace of Hinako she'd avoided her backlogged homework for a day, but day two of the back-to-school blues hit in full force.

" ' Force: by Isaac Newton's first law, force equals mass times acceleration.' " Akane frowned. "I don't even remember opening this book!" She tossed the science text aside. Intriguing as classical mechanics may be, the _collision_ of all these subjects had proved too much to handle.

She huffed. _And Ranma has twice as much work as I do! _ Idly, her eyes wandered to the door, but a watched door never opens.

"Feh." She shut the books, all of them. Studying wasn't the point; that much she could admit to herself. The only principle of reflection she concerned herself with was the image of her hair in the mirror, which she brushed back and tidied with her hand.

Her bandaged hand, the hand Shampoo smashed into the steel door at school just a day ago. Overkill, to be sure. Just a few scuffed knuckles; bruised, yes, but not bloody. She clenched and wiggled her fingers, proving their dexterity.

Aching soreness throbbed in the joints. She winced.

Her eye drifted to the door again. _What's taking him so long? _

All day he'd been preoccupied, ever since morning, when she found him snoozing outside her bedroom door. No, he had no explanation. No, it wouldn't happen again. No, it _definitely_ had nothing to do with the racket outside or the chance, however slim, that Shampoo might come for her in the night. With that much clear, he'd trudged to the guest room and deflected all other questions. "Don't you have a run or something?" he'd said. "You're always happier when you do your morning run. Don't let me hold you up."

Maybe he didn't mean to delay her, but didn't he know better than to give an offhand compliment and walk away? Honestly, what was going through his mind? Yesterday he walked home with her, hardly said a word, hardly _ate_, of all things, and then what did he do? He strolled alongside her to school with a smug smile that he failed to hold back. He found a tree during lunch and wrote on a notepad, tapping the eraser like he's planning something. "No, no, you can't see; it's a surprise," he said. And that's all. Only one thing could break his mood.

"What about yesterday? With Shampoo?"

A pall flickered over his face, but he was impassive, deliberate. "Don't worry," he said, closing the notebook. "I'll handle Shampoo. That's a promise."

He shoved the pad into his bag. The edge of the page bore Shampoo's name.

Akane puzzled over that. _Just what are you up to, Ranma? You can tell me. I'm not just your fiancée anymore, am I? We're something more now, right? _

Idly, she reached for the plate. Crumbs stuck to her fingertips.

_Maybe it's not that you can't tell me. It's just you won't._

Knock-knock.

Akane jolted from her chair. "Um, just a minute!"

" 'Just a minute?' " said Ranma, voice muffled by the door. "What are you doing in there, changing?"

A physics text bounced off the doorframe. "I'm not naked, you pervert!"

"Hey, that's not what I said."

Akane swiveled in her chair, tugging and straightening her blouse. She took one more glance at the mirror, flicking some stray strands of hair from her face. "Come in!"

Click went the lock. "Huh," said Ranma, eying her. "That's disappointing."

She held up the math book. "Do I need to throw another?"

"Okay, okay, I ain't saying nothing more, honest."

Akane smiled wryly. "Good. So now that you're done fooling around, we can get studying, yeah?"

"About that…"

She frowned.

"I have to run an errand."

"What errand? Something for Kasumi?"

"Yeah! Yeah, that's it. Something for Kasumi."

Akane sighed. "Well, I guess I can't argue with that. How long will you be?"

"Maybe an hour?"

"Okay. Hope you don't mind cold cookies."

"You mean you're not going to eat all of them?"

Thud went the math book.

"All right, all right, no more jokes about … er …"

"Don't you say it."

"Cookies! No more jokes about cookies."

Akane nodded her approval. "You _are_ learning."

"Oi, I'm not your dog."

"But you run errands," she said, grinning.

He narrowed his eyes. "Think I'd rather run a dozen errands than stand here and be compared to a domesticated—"

"Cat?"

He shuddered. "I'm getting out of here."

"Ah, Ranma, wait!"

He backpedaled, hanging in the doorway. "Yeah?"

Akane hopped from her chair, scooting it under the desk. She met him at the threshold, lowering her voice so only they could hear. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Me? Why wouldn't I be?"

She raised her hand, showing her bandages.

"Oh, that." He gulped. "Just stay right here until I get back. Then we can study. We can study all night."

"_All_ night?"

He laughed. "As long as you don't eat the whole plate of cookies."

"Pervert!"

He shut the door, cutting off her tirade. "See you in an hour!"

Akane banged her fist on the door once for good measure. "Well, just for that, no cookies for you," she said, sitting at her desk. Her irritation faded, however, as she returned to her studies. "Ranma's still Ranma." Indeed, she cracked a smile. "Wouldn't be Ranma if he's not a little inconsiderate." Perhaps it was bizarre, taking comfort in his flaws, but in the course of living with Ranma, Akane discovered several sides to him—distinct personas, separate from one another, that seldom interacted or showed themselves at the same time. The first, his trickster side, dressed him as a girl and begged for ice cream from strange boys. It taunted poor Ryōga, fooling him with pathetic disguises. When Akane dreamt of swimming in the sea, it whispered in her ear, "Ahh, Akane, you're drowning!" Thus, it wasn't Akane's favorite side of him, but she knew it well, enough to admit he had far too much skill in the masquerade for his own good.

The second side of him, the most obvious and prominent, was the nest of his pride and ego. Under this power, he derided her ability as a martial artist and praised his own, and he strode into battle confident and sure that his enemies would fall before him. Not a bad thing—indeed, without this pride, Ranma would hardly be Ranma at all—but his ego knew no bounds; it didn't stop at his fighting skills. At times, he proclaimed himself irresistible (both female and male), and when one of his girls strayed from him, he appeased her, chased her until she returned to him, when he would complain about the fianceés who fought for him.

At least, he gave chase when it wasn't Akane.

There were other sides, too, and with each aspect of him she discerned, she wondered whether these different personas held any meaning at all, but to her, they were true and as different as sun from moon, rain from snow. His prideful side wouldn't retrieve a stuffed bunny rabbit for a feverish little girl. Perhaps any normal person would do that for a child, but few could jump from street level to her window, and fewer still would hand the rabbit back to her, eyes wide and kind. That was the third side of him—that of a boy, not a man, who wanted good things for people and feared not to do them—and she loved him for it.

She loved him for his courage, too. She loved how raw determination fueled him in battle, even when all signs foretold his defeat. He stood up to Ryōga's Shishi Hokōdan and rode the ball of ki to its source. Locked as a girl, he chased after Herb, found the Open Water Kettle, and regained his manhood. He distracted the eight-headed serpent and gave her, gave Akane, a chance to escape. Many times he'd rushed to protect her or avenge her honor. In those moments, and those moments only, did she dare believe he loved her.

Before Jusenkyō, anyway. Before Jusenkyō, she'd have said these four aspects comprised Ranma fully, that mischief and ego formed a mask, concealing his true kindness and force of will. But there was a fifth side to Ranma, one deeper than all the others, that came out only in times of true pain to the soul.

In hindsight, she'd seen it once before, with his mother. She knew him now, of course, knew all about his curse, but the last time she left them, the last time she left searching, hoping to find Ranma again, she departed head down, katana covered at her side, and Ranma, unrecognizable to her as a girl, waved goodbye.

"Come on," Akane had said. "I'll get you hot water."

But Ranma held fast, his feet anchored to the sidewalk, until his mother turned the corner, out of sight. And though Akane took him by the arm, leading him inside, he gazed toward the gate, as if his mother's absence tore at him like an old wound, one that throbs when it rains, that you rub your fingers across as you lay down to sleep. A difficult choice, between knowing her safely, as a stranger, and exposing himself as only half a man, risking death and disappointment.

Let no one say Ranma didn't love his mother; cowardly his deception may have been, but Akane would smack anyone who suggested otherwise. Never would she forget that look on his face, for at times, she wanted it for herself—not to cause him anguish, but to matter to him, as much as his mother did and more, and to see him show it. What son didn't love his mother? What good son wouldn't show her affection and care? Ranma could dream of showing her the man he'd become, and no one would blame him or spread rumor an innuendo about his choice. He had only one mother, not like his problem with too many fianceés. It was natural, expected even, that she could evoke some deep emotion, a feeling no one else had witnessed before.

Of late, she'd seen it. She glimpsed his grief through the folds of her clothes, for as a doll, she could do nothing to rouse him. In the schoolyard, he hovered over Shampoo and endured his classmates' stares. He was hollow, empty, like a soul laid bare for all to see. Perhaps the veil of trickery and pride masked not a wholesome, normal boy but this man instead, a man of deep and unbounded feeling.

A man she hardly knew at all. A man who, despite her best efforts, refused to show his inmost self to her.

"Just stay right here," he'd said. "It'll be fine."

Preposterous. A day since Shampoo attacked her, and he wasn't fine. A week since Saffron and Jusenkyō, and he still wasn't fine.

She looked to the window. "All you have to do is tell me. It's not so bad, is it? Once you get it out?"

Like she knew anything of it.

Maybe that's what he wanted from her. What if the only way to show him, to deserve his love, was to speak the truth of her heart, to say it boldly, to shout it to the winds? That would cure the disquiet in his soul, wouldn't it? To know she loved him, that no matter what weakness or fear might threaten him, he would always be strong in her eyes? He'd earned that much from her, no doubt of that.

Akane tossed her books on the bed. She snatched a cookie from the tray and jogged downstairs, bound for the kitchen. "Sister?"

"Ah, Akane," said Kasumi. "I was just pouring some milk for you."

"Ranma went out on an errand, right?"

"An errand?"

"Yes, he said you sent him out. Where was he going?"

"I don't know what you mean," said Kasumi, tilting a jug of milk over a glass. "I didn't send Ranma-kun anywhere."

"Didn't send him? But he said you—"

The eldest sister placed the cup on a tray, next to a second, identical glass. "I thought he was with you. The cookies were for both of you, after all."

Akane stared at the glasses. "What errand?" she remembered saying. "Something for Kasumi?"

"Yeah! Yeah, that's it. Something for Kasumi."

She shuddered. "He lied to me."

"Akane?"

He brushed her off; he hid something from her.

… like the letter he wrote to Shampoo.

"So that's what it is," said Akane. "He's going to see Shampoo." She kicked off her slippers and dashed outside, on her way to Nekohanten, the Cat Café.

#

"You know we don't open for half an hour."

"I know. I wanted to catch Shampoo before things were too busy."

"Ah, does the Tendō girl know of this?"

"I didn't tell her where I was going."

"Really? Even after what you did to my great-granddaughter, you think Tendō would mistrust you?"

Ranma swirled a cup of tea, watching steam waft from the surface. "I didn't want to get her hopes up."

"So you've made a decision, then," said Cologne.

"I ain't made no 'decision' of any kind."

Cologne laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Even now, boldness when it comes to women escapes you, son-in-law. In this, I am not surprised. Indeed, it has kept me here, for under the right circumstances, you would marry Shampoo. Of that, I am certain."

Ranma folded his arms and leaned back at the table. "Who I marry is my business."

"But not _only_ your business." Cologne sipped her tea. "Still, if you're not here reject Shampoo, why have you come? To apologize for your brutality, perhaps?"

"Oi, I'm not the one who attacked Akane!"

The Amazon narrowed her eyes. "Yes, the Tendō girl is important to you, isn't she? I heard, more from Mousse than Shampoo, what occurred at Jusendō."

"Really? I'm surprised duck-boy isn't here beating me senseless over Shampoo."

"His cage will hold for a time. Think not of Mousse. He has his skills, yes, but he cannot compare to Saffron."

Ranma huffed. "The kid was a punk, boy or adult."

"I've known a few incarnations of Saffron since I was young. I can tell you that doesn't really change. If the well at Mount Phoenix has regained its source, that may hold him at bay—at least, for a few decades. He's a formidable opponent, matured or not."

"He wasn't that tough."

Cologne raised her eyebrows.

"He was a little tough," said Ranma.

"You've improved considerably since I came here. Without my teachings, you would never have known Hiryū Shōten Ha, and without that, you would lose to Saffron."

"Your point?"

"The martial traditions of my people are vast and rich. There is still much I can teach you, and much you, in turn, could teach a generation of my tribe. Three generations, if you should live that long."

"All for the low, low price of marrying Shampoo, plus shipping and handling to China."

"You needn't confuse marriage with love, son-in-law."

"This isn't about marriage."

"No, perhaps not." Her cup clinked on the saucer. "It's about protecting what matters to you, yes?"

Ranma blinked, surprised.

"There are things that matter to me, too, Saotome Ranma, and not just the fate of my great-granddaughter's heart. You may look upon my tribe's laws with scorn. They may annoy or inconvenience you, but of this you should be sure: there are far greater powers in this world than Saffron. Through every generation of warriors, we strive to to improve ourselves, to match them if they should rise again. If we fall, the ocean won't protect you, your wife, or your children from their assault. Just because you're in Japan doesn't make you safe."

"That a threat?"

"Please. I don't make idle threats. The danger we face has slept for many years, and may it sleep for many more, but the need for warriors of good and strong blood remains."

"I'm not having any children by her."

"Not willingly, perhaps. We could always take your seed by force."

Ranma's eyes widened to saucers. "Eh?"

"Shampoo is not well-trained in that art. I may still have the touch, however."

"EH?"

Cologne cackled, hopping off the chair. "Worry not, son-in-law; the time for such measures hasn't come yet. I must prepare water for the dinner crowd. Shampoo should return soon with the spices I requested, and until she does, think carefully about what I've said. I may appeal to your pride as a martial artist; I may persuade you or manipulate your mind, but I know what your heart has chosen. There is no changing that, I see. I accept it, but Shampoo will not."

With that, Cologne retreated to the kitchen, and Ranma sat alone at the table. It'd be easy to hate the old ghoul, this enemy who had, at many an opportunity, coerced him to marry Shampoo, but she was right—she'd trained him in arts he'd never have known otherwise, like a teacher, a mentor.

A mentor who trapped him in his girl form and held marriage to Shampoo as the price of the remedy. Only the dangerous, unpredictable nature of the Neko-ken, of the cat Ranma convinced himself to be, persuaded Cologne to end that gambit and reward him with the Phoenix Pill. She had her moments of honor and judiciousness … when plots for Ranma's heart could backfire just as much as succeed.

Ranma sniffed the tea. It tasted well enough. Hot, aromatic. Not too bitter.

He pushed the cup aside. Damage done was damage done. He could only hope that he wouldn't hug or kiss Shampoo on command or any nonsense like that. He fished his pockets and unfolded a sheet of paper.

"Hi, Shampoo. I'm sorry about your arm, but there's something you've got to understand. I'm not saying you can't marry me, but if you hurt Akane again, if you touch her—"

It stopped. That is, the coherent part of the script stopped. Scribbles and strikethroughs obscured the rest of his monologue. "If you touch her, it's over between us," read one line. "If you touch her, I don't care about your laws." At the end of the page, kana and kanji shrunk to minuscule size, jostling to fit within the edges, but spiral pen marks blocked them out too.

The problem was they were lies, all of them. Laws meant nothing. What relationship did they have? They could be friends, perhaps. He'd tried to tell her once before, but the mind control of the Phoenix people deadened her heart to him. "Shampoo have no friends!" she'd said, and mind control or not, Ranma wondered if she felt that way all the time.

He grimaced. In China, he showed her compassion. He freed her. He tried to disarm her without leaving a mark or a scratch, but she attacked Akane, and it was only for better judgment and restraint that he didn't write what he wanted to say.

"If you touch her, you fight me, and you _know_ I can beat you."

A sure way to damage her pride, breed desperation—the kind of desperation that led her to attack Akane in the first place. If he could help it, he wouldn't push a girl over that threshold again. Not Shampoo, the greatest danger among his suitors, and not Ukyō either, the one that would hurt most if he did.

Ding-a-ling!

_Here we go._

"Great-grandmother, storekeeper no have jasmine," said Shampoo, hauling groceries behind her. "Say giant sumo pig run shipment off road. Is very—" She dropped the bags. "… strange."

Ranma cleared his throat. "Hi, Shampoo."

She tugged her sleeve, covering the dark blue bruise on her wrist.

"Shampoo?"

She blinked, and shock and surprise gave way to shallow imitations of joy. "Aiya, Ranma come visit Shampoo! Is happy day. Happy, happy day."

He winced.

"Shampoo deliver spices for great-grandmother. Ranma want soup? Or noodles?"

Ranma shrugged. "More tea?"

"Come right up!" Shampoo plowed through the kitchen door, bags in hand, and disappeared within.

Ranma leaned back and sighed. A fight he could handle. An amorous advance he'd prepared for, but this obliviousness unsettled him. _Sheesh, she's like a damaged kitten. Still comes back to you even though you backhanded it._

He made a fist. Guilt was his enemy here. The old bat was right—when it came to women he was soft. He'd shown kindness before, even when any reasonable man would've realized he was being used. Manipulated. Whatever the word, it chafed at his pride. This was nothing short of battle, and no girl would best him in the field of love.

"Here, more tea."

"Eh?" Ranma twitched, startled. _When did she get back? _

Shampoo filled the cup to the brim. "You ask for tea, yes?"

"Ah, yeah, I guess I did."

"Shampoo sorry."

"About the tea?"

She shook her head. "About Akane."

_Apologies. Crude, empty apologies. They don't mean anything._ Ranma turned away. "I don't want to hear it if you're just going to lie to me."

The Amazon sat beside him, pulling a chair to his side. "Is no lie," she said, staring at the floor. "Shampoo get desperate. Shampoo attack Akane because Shampoo afraid."

"What? Of me marrying her?"

She shook her head again. "Laws change in village now. Shampoo tell everyone Ranma husband, but not all believe."

"What a surprise."

"They no believe, so elders say Shampoo must come home with husband."

"I'm not your husband. Now listen—"

"They say Shampoo come home with husband, or Shampoo come home in urn."

An urn? For ashes? For Shampoo's ashes?

Ranma shuddered. "They'll kill you? Why? That's senseless!"

"No honor in come home without husband. Is most important duty of women in tribe, to find man who best her. Woman who don't marry that man worth nothing. Life worth nothing. Blood worth nothing. Honor … all gone."

A bead of sweat broke out on Ranma's brow. This wasn't how it should happen! He was supposed to set her straight, but that's all! Nobody should die for that.

"You don't have to go home," said Ranma. "If you don't go back, they can't do anything to you."

She nodded. "Is so easy. Shampoo stay in Nerima with Ranma, even if he never love her. Family not important. Friends at home not important. Shampoo be here this long. What one more day or week or month or year?"

Ranma slapped himself. _Just tell her to give up everything for you, moron! _ He bunched the tablecloth in his hands, searching, struggling for an answer. "Man, I can't believe this. The old ghoul didn't say word one about it!"

Shampoo flinched. "You talk to great-grandmother?"

"Yeah! I mean, I would've thought she'd say something about it, try to guilt trip me into marrying you at least, make some kind of—" He stopped. "… play."

The more he said, the more it didn't make any sense. Cologne _would_ make a play for him given the chance. Even if it didn't involve love, she'd said she would. She said _Shampoo_ would. Shampoo would never give up; she'd do anything, say anything, to win his heart. Fight, maim, kill…

Act.

Ranma eyed the teacup. Within the porcelain, the liquid shook. It shook as he shook, for inside him, a great rage stirred. Shampoo did all these things for his love, and she did them willingly. She deceived him. She made to maul Akane, and she felt neither remorse nor pity, but he would make her feel fear. She almost made a fool of him again. She brought Akane to the edge of life, and for that, a simple bruise was not enough, not nearly enough!

"Shampoo?"

She met his gaze and shriveled under it. "Ranma?"

"You're playing me, aren't you?"

"No! Shampoo would never—"

"Oh, you wouldn't? You were there when I fought Saffron. You saw what happened when I thought Akane wouldn't come back. And when we returned, the first chance you got, what did you do? You attacked her, Shampoo! You and Ucchan! Did you think I'd ignore it? Did you think I'd forget? I can't even forget that she died!"

Her eyes hardened; all pretense of wounding vanished from her face. "What else Shampoo should do? Akane try take Ranma away. Shampoo fight any girl who want Ranma for herself! Is way of tribe! Ranma is only one for Shampoo!"

"I don't belong to you!"

"Shampoo kill anyone who obstacle to _our_ happiness!"

He rose. "We don't _have_ any happiness! Do you understand? We never had anything! It was always just you, and I never had any part of it, never! And if you ever attack Akane again, I won't hold back! Do you hear me? I'll kill you!"

Seething, Ranma stormed from the restaurant and slammed the door against the frame.

And Shampoo, incensed, hurled the teacup and shattered it on the wall. This defeat—it was impossible! Inconceivable! Akane wasn't strong, not like Shampoo was. She could hardly fight for herself, not the way a woman of the tribe could! How many times did Ranma intervene in a fight just to protect her? How often did her weakness make her a liability, a wife unsuitable for a warrior husband?

What had that _girl_ ever done to deserve him?

Great-grandmother had warned her of this. "To single-handedly defeat Saffron, even with one of his legendary weapons, is no easy task," she'd said. "And I fear son-in-law's bonded with the Tendō girl. You must take the long way of things; our efforts are not undone merely because he marries her here and now."

But she ignored the warnings. No, Great-grandmother was wrong! If Ranma married Akane, there was no going back! He would move to defend her, just as he did now, except with the furor of a husband enraged. And then, as now, there would be no way out, no way to win his heart…

"Hello?"

From _her_.

Akane poked her head in the door, pulling at the ends of her school uniform to keep from tripping over them.

"What—" Shampoo choked on the words. Just thinking Akane's name affected her; like a violinist's string her body pulled tight, fraught with tension. She battled back this sensation, however, enough to say something coherent. "What you want?"

Akane backed off, striking a martial artist's stance to defend herself. "I thought Ranma was here. My mistake, sorry."

"Was here," said Shampoo. "Is no longer."

"So he was here after all? What did he say?"

Shampoo gritted her teeth. It was one thing to see Akane; to have this this husband-stealer in their restaurant, gloating over her victory, boiled Shampoo's blood, but Ranma's threat hung in the air. Even as Akane spat on the laws of the tribe, Shampoo could do nothing!

At least, not to her body.

Shampoo studied her opponent, and though bitter tears clouded her vision, she saw Akane clearly—not a wife who came to boast of her new husband but a girl with questions and worry.

A girl with doubt.

"Ranma come say he sorry for hurt Shampoo," said the Amazon.

"Oh really."

"Is true. You no believe?"

"And even if he did end up hurting you, why should he apologize?"

Shampoo turned aside, concealing a smirk. Ranma may have warned her off attacking Akane, but Shampoo had a weapon Akane could never comprehend: the art of manipulation. She needed not magical conditioners to do the job—only Akane's natural fear. Her paranoia. Her insecurity, which had soured her relationship with Ranma so many times in the past. Akane fought the game of love with a barb meant to keep Ranma away, lest he lower her defenses and strike at her heart.

And now, all Shampoo needed do was sharpen the hook.

"He tell Shampoo he love."

"Hah!" Akane crossed her arms and laughed. "That's preposterous! You heard what he told me in China."

Shampoo frowned. "I not know what you talking about."

Akane stiffened. "Why should I believe you?"

"You see tears? They ruin makeup. Shampoo cry tears of joy when Ranma tell her."

Akane's gaze wavered; her eyes telegraphed untold fear and hesitation.

_That's right. You are weak little girl, not a warrior. I am warrior, and true warriors win their battles. You can be made to lose before you step on the field._

"Well, if that's so," said Akane, "then where's the man who 'loves' you, huh?"

Where would he go? If he came to see Shampoo, then who else…?

"You attacked her, Shampoo!" Ranma'd said. "You and Ucchan! Did you think I'd ignore it? Did you think I'd forget?"

"He go to spatula girl," said Shampoo.

"Ukyō." Akane made a fist, plowing out the door. "I've got to find Ukyō."

Shampoo grinned, wiping the tears away. It was only fair, after all. Even if Ranma hadn't gone to Ukyō, Akane would find him sooner or later, and while he denied loving Shampoo, Akane would assume everything he didn't say. Maybe Akane's experience in China emboldened her, but she would soon see. Everyone would see how ugly Tendō Akane could be.

Even to the man who spilled blood for her.

* * *

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	6. In the Cold Rain V: The Cold Rain

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

* * *

**The Cold Rain**

_Chapter One Finale_

That's the problem with blood. It clouds the vision, drips over the eyes. It trickles down the face and swirls in rainwater.

Ranma had a big problem with blood.

In the deafening downpour, Ranma staggered through the jungle. The girl, the captain, he'd lost somewhere. He touched his fingers to the cut on his forehead, but the wound stung to the touch. He recoiled, marching on.

He marched to nowhere. The walls of falling water obscured the terrain—worse than fog or mist. Clear features became vague and formless. He collided with trees and tripped over roots.

Somewhere in this torrent, _he_ had to be here.

"Help!"

The rain roared over him, reducing his cries to faint, faraway whispers.

_Is that him? _

"If you can't assist me, find the boy with the black pigtail and maul him, will you? He must be punished for his deception, his audacity!"

_Oh yeah. That's him._

Knots and ropes bound Kunō to the base of a tree. He struggled, to no avail. "Help me!"

"It's all right," said Ranma, unraveling the knots. "I got you, Kunō."

"Who is that? The pigtailed girl?"

Ranma sighed, slapping his own forehead.

"Oh, you would not believe what has happened!" said Kunō.

"You saw a woman throwing energy beams from her hands?"

Kunō turned his head, looking around the trunk. "No," he said. "Saotome—he truly is a vile sorcerer!"

"Oh really."

"I awoke in these ropes, and he dragged me along the jungle floor!"

"You don't say."

"He tried to convince me he was you! He doused himself in water, and he transformed, before my very eyes, into an image of you!" He laughed. "But it was petty illusion! He thought I could not distinguish him from you. He was sadly mistaken!"

Ranma undid the last knot and walked around the tree. He crouched to Kunō's level and looked him square in the eye.

"You think you can tell us apart now, can you?"

Kunō shot up. "Of course! If you were Saotome, surely you would have some way to change back!"

The pigtailed girl caught raindrops in the palm of her hand. "Not right now I don't."

"So you _are_ Saotome."

_Oh great._

"Impostor! You've taken me from the pigtailed girl!" Kunō yanked him by the collar. "Where is she? Where did you sequester her?"

"Oi, for the love of the gods—"

"You must've crawled into our bed!"

"You slept on the floor, idiot!"

"Where I rest is none of your—"

The rain stopped.

"Wha?"

Ranma and Kunō dripped and shook their clothes, but while the area around them cleared, the monsoon showered upon the jungle around them, as if they sat safe in a snow globe.

"This is wrong," said Kunō. "This is magic, is it not? Is this your doing, Saotome?"

"Not me."

"Then it is she who is responsible?"

_She? _

Her hair stuck to her neck. Her soggy clothes sagged under the weight of absorbed water. The captain stared at Ranma and Kunō from the rain, unflinching.

"Kind of wish you were dry, don't you?" said Ranma.

The captain broke her gaze, looked to the sky. The clouds, dark and low, sped over them on the breath of the wind, but the sky warped and shimmered, like the floor of a pool in daylight, from refraction …

… of water.

_She's gathering all the water! _

The captain smirked, realizing the fear in her victims.

"Kunō," said Ranma, "if we get separated, go back to Japan. You hear me?"

"I will not leave the pigtailed girl in this jungle!"

"She'll be there! Or, or … go to Akane! She'll help you!"

The water above swirled and spun.

"I shan't let this fair maiden defeat you, Saotome," said Kunō.

Ranma scoffed. "You can't fight her."

"No, but I can defeat you myself!"

"Ugh, moron." Ranma decked him on the spot and hurled the limp body clear.

_You're lucky she's after me, not you._

CRACK! Branches and limbs snapped off their trunks. The water spout descended on Ranma, and harsh currents pulled at his arms.

_Stay cool. Just … stay cool. What's she doing? _

The captain steadied herself against a tree, watching the vortex with blank eyes.

_Let's see if you can beat this! _ Ranma snatched a limb from the storm. He swung and cut a gap in the spout, and through this hole, he hurled the limb, heaving it end over end.

THUNK!

The spout dissipated; its water scattered and hit the forest floor. The captain fell back, stunned.

"Just what I thought!" said Ranma. "You're a wimp like Saffron! Can't take a hit to save your life!"

The captain dug the tree branch into the ground, like a walking stick. She closed her eyes, trembling.

In all directions, the rain halted.

_Oh crap. Do I hit her real quick, or—_

A mountain of water sloped in a cone and began to swirl.

_Run! _

He kicked up dirt and mud. He threw boulders in the tornado's path. He jumped off severed tree trunks that crashed into the ground. Somewhere, maybe a mile or two from where he freed Kunō, the water spout flew apart, but not before it cut a path of desolation behind it.

Safe for a moment, Ranma trotted from the edge of the disaster area, panting and wheezing.

_Well, Ranma, what have you got yourself into now? How do you feel about this mess? _

First of all he was tired. Akane may have liked to run marathons, but endurance came to him out of habit, not dedicated practice. A mile at full sprint demanded time to recover, regroup.

And it may have been for nothing. Ranma looked through the trees, relieved to see he was still in walking distance to the spring grounds, but by now the pools had flooded—the whole basin was a growing sea, and given the chance, it would swallow them both and curse them in horrific ways. Bottles of Jusenkyō water came with one warning if nothing else:

"Do not mix."

And to add injury to insult, he still had a bleeding wound on his head. Best to get that looked at.

With no one—not Kunō, not the shadowy captain who stalked him—in sight, Ranma huddled by a rock face. This shelter would protect him while he devised some strategy, some means to defeat his enemy.

And so, in the cold rain he hid in shadow, watching droplets ripple across the pond. He scanned the horizon, but sheets of rain and dense jungle concealed his pursuer from him, and he from her.

#

"Okonomiyaki Ucchan's! How may I help you?"

The girl at the pay phone tugged on her uniform, cradling the receiver between her head and shoulder. "Hi, Konatsu?"

"Akane-sama! Oh my, how long has it been?"

"Two days? The wedding was Sunday."

"Oh, you're right! How silly of me. It's just since that day I don't think I had the chance to apologize to you or Ranma-sama."

"Apologize? What for?"

"I think Ukyō-sama called them 'special celebratory modern'—"

"That's not your fault, Konatsu."

"Maybe it's not. I was there when she made them, and I didn't even realize, so I can be sorry for both of us."

"That's really sweet of you."

"Oh, it's nothing! My step-sisters always made me take the blame for things they did. I guess I'm used to it."

Akane blinked.

"So what can Ucchan's do for you today? To-go order? Ranma-sama's usual?"

"Well, that's what I wanted to talk about, actually. Is Ranma there?"

"I don't think so. The restaurant's a little busier than it was yesterday, though; I've been covering for Ukyō-sama, though, so he might've snuck in—"

"Wait, where's Ukyō?"

"She's been upstairs ever since we got the mail. I think she's reading that strange postcard, now that you mention it. Something from Kyoto, I think, or was it—"

"That's fine; you say she's still there?"

"Last time I checked. Oh, here's Ranma-sama now! Do you want to speak to him?"

She covered the mouthpiece. "So it is. He _did_ go to Ukyō after all."

"Akane-sama?"

"Huh? What? No! Don't tell him I called."

"But—"

Akane jammed the phone on the hook. She pushed the door to the phone booth aside and stepped out under a dark, cloudy sky. _You lied to me, Ranma. You went to Shampoo, and what, you told her you were sorry? You said whatever it took to make her stay? _ She made a fist. _No, I don't believe what Shampoo said. I don't believe a word of it, but you did trick me. You tricked me._

A cauldron of mixed emotions bubbled within her. Anger, which she knew so well. Yearning, which she stamped out, too proud and fearful to let it bother her. Yes, there was fear, too—fear that what she heard was only what she wanted to hear. If he never said it, could he really mean it?

She looked to the phone, as if it might hold some answer for her, but in the glass's reflection, she saw herself: a girl with long sleeves and short hair. A girl who bore some resemblance to the one Ranma met all those months ago, but she'd changed. She looked in mirrors and made herself pretty. She moped when he left her, whether for China or his mother's home. She baked cookies, not for grades or the pride of her beloved mother. She cooked for _him_, to make him say he liked her meals, so he would admit, at long last, that she'd improved herself.

That she'd earned his love.

_But it's not enough, is it? If you won't tell me when you're troubled, if you lie to me so easily, does it matter if we think we love each other? _

In the glass's faint reflection, she pictured Ranma as the pigtailed girl, for Akane imbued that construct with all his wisdom and kindness and love. Everything that was the best of him, yet even still, the girl met her gaze with sad eyes.

"Friends trust each other no matter what," said Akane. "As long as we can't say what we feel, we can never be that."

The pigtailed girl nodded once, grim and mournful.

Akane touched the glass. "I guess it's time then." She pushed off and jogged to the corner. Down the cross-street, an awning displayed the name of the restaurant for all to see.

"Okonomiyaki Ucchan's."

"Tell me the truth now, Ranma," said Akane. "Do you love me?"

#

"Are you sure you don't want something to eat?" asked Konatsu.

Ranma swiveled on the stool, drumming his fingers on the counter-top. "I'm fine. How long will Ucchan be, do you think?"

Konatsu checked the stairwell. "She could come down any second, or it could be well over an hour. Hard to say when these cards arrive."

"So it's not the first one?"

"No, not at all."

"Who are they from?"

"It doesn't say. _She_ doesn't say. If you want, though, I could disturb her?"

"It's okay; I'll wait."

"I take it you're not here for food, then."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because then you wouldn't wait?"

"Hey now…"

"It also means you're here for something else. Am I right?"

Ranma raised an eyebrow.

"There are tissues and a first-aid kid under the counter here," said Konatsu, showing him the two boxes. "Ukyō-sama likes to be prepared. Do you want me to leave them out?"

"I'm sure under the counter is fine."

"Of course. I'll go see if she's finished." Konatsu trotted to the staircase but hesitated, eyeing the wall-mounted phone.

"Something wrong?" asked Ranma.

"Oh, no, I'm sure it's nothing. I'll just be a moment."

With that, the kunoichi hiked up the stairs, out of sight.

Ranma spun on the stool, putting his back to the grill and hungry customers. _Stupid stupid stupid. You just _had_ to lay it out for Shampoo, didn't you? She doesn't have to be rational; she could be going after Akane right now! _

He shuddered, quashing the thought. Akane was safe, at home, with both their fathers to protect her. Cowardly as his old man might be, he certainly wouldn't let anyone threaten the engagement while he was around. And Shampoo, though she might act brazenly, had to know the wrath he could wield to punish her. If it came to it, he _would_ kill her to protect Akane; that much was true.

Just damn the passion that made him say it, burning rage, not cool necessity. As true as his threat might be for Shampoo, he couldn't—he _wouldn't_—let his emotions get away with Ukyō.

But there were questions, serious questions: why did she attack Akane at the wedding? Why did she stand by while Shampoo pressed on Akane's skull? Were these the actions of a friend to him … or someone so obsessed with winning his heart that she could justify any means, so long as it produced a happy end?

That was the greatest sin of all. He'd concealed his feelings for Akane, hid them as best he could, and that was sin enough, but these girls ran rampant vying for him. He might not be responsible for these engagements, but every day he delayed held a cost in honor, a cost that accrued and multiplied, as any debt would. A cost he could never satisfy for all. A fool he was, to think those debts might vanish and fade over time, that these girls—whether friends like Ukyō or lunatics like Kodachi—could forget what made them want him.

He sighed. At least any pain he inflicted or suffered himself would have meaning. He might not have the courage to speak his feelings aloud, but he could show Akane through deeds and actions that he meant what she heard, even if he thought he never said it. The promise of her smile lent him strength. Strength enough to tell Ukyō he had nothing to offer her but the friendship they already had? More and more it looked like someone would have to get hurt, and if the usual trend held, it would be Ranma who came back with bumps and bruises. He escaped Shampoo, sure, but luck had saved him there. Had she regained her wits one second earlier …

Well, better to avoid the wrath of an Amazon. Or a chef. Or especially an heiress to a respected martial arts dojo. Good company all around, with each ready to punish him dearly if he strayed too far.

The more he thought about it, the more Ukyō didn't really fit.

He turned his seat and studied the patrons. Two boys and a girl chatted at the other end of the counter, chafing against their school uniforms. A man and a woman—husband and wife, maybe? —ate by the window and laughed uproariously. Just a small handful of people, yet they left little room for more.

The shop was the problem: a tiny, efficient rental space, but impossible to expand. Here, Ukyō was a one-woman cooking army, but one girl, working all alone, can feed only so many people.

"Ranchan?" Ukyō hesitated at the threshold. "What are you doing here?"

_Take it easy now; she's not Shampoo._ "I just stopped by is all," he said. "Are you busy?"

Ukyō fumbled with a handful of tickets for orders. "Got a little backlog, it looks like. Mind if I take care of it real quick?"

"Not at all."

"Thanks," she said, whipping out a pair of spatulas. "It'll just be a minute."

"Take your time."

She winked, leaving him for the three students on the far side of the counter. Before them, Ukyō plopped three spots of batter on the griddle, and with the utmost focus and precision, she shaped and molded the dough, adorning each pancake with shrimp or melted cheese as the order required. Her concentration permitted no error, no mistake. She sliced the three pancakes in a single, sweeping motion, and she cut them again, counter to the first. Faced with a trio of pristine okonomiyaki, the customers applauded Ukyō, and the chef, ever a presenter as well as a cook, bowed in return.

"Your training comes in handy on the grill, too," said Ranma.

"Nothing like a touch of flair to entertain a customer," said Ukyō. "That's what Father likes to say."

"You still see him?"

She paled. "No, I haven't seen him in quite some time." She shook herself. "Let's not talk about that. You came to me, Ranchan. I should hear what you have to say. Or can I make you something?"

"I think you want to sit down."

"Sit down? That's silly, Ranchan. You can't cook while sitting down. I mean, you can, but not on this counter. It's far too high, and—"

"Please, Ukyō."

Her spatulas fell on the counter. "So we're at that now."

Ranma sighed. _The first hint's always the worst._

"So what's really on your mind, then?" asked Ukyō, lugging a stool behind her.

"It's about … well, a lot of things, really, but I wanted to start with the wedding."

"I overdid it."

"You can't just—wait, what?"

She leaned forward, meeting his gaze. "I guess I thought this was _my_ engagement being ruined, and I snapped. I felt there was no chance at all if you and Akane got married, and I didn't think for a moment that you weren't going to. You're strong; Akane-chan's strong. The bombs were symbolic, to you and to her, but I endangered everyone else in that room. Our classmates, our friends…"

She was right, after all: those little okonomiyaki bombs weren't much more than toys. They stunned him for a little while, nothing more. She couldn't have meant any serious harm by them, and she took responsibility for what danger she did cause. How tempting it was to forget the past, to absolve Ukyō of a moment's weakness and desperation, but that wasn't the whole of Ukyō's indiscretions. There was still another she'd yet to answer for.

"What about yesterday?"

"What's that?"

"Yesterday," said Ranma. "At school. Shampoo had Akane at her mercy. You were there."

"Yes, I suppose I was."

"You suppose?"

"I mean I know I was. I was. I was there."

"What were you going to do, Ucchan?"

She stared at the hot plate. "I couldn't do anything."

"Why?"

"Shampoo would kill her if I came any closer. She said so. Ask anybody."

"I'm not asking anybody; I'm asking you."

"What? What are you asking me for? I don't want to talk about this anymore. I told you what happened."

"Truthfully? You ain't told me anything."

She huffed. "I told you like you told me what happened in China. Something happened there, and if you don't want to tell me, that's fine, but I don't have to talk about something that everybody saw, including you. You can't make me." Ukyō kicked the stool away and grabbed her spatulas, preparing the griddle for another order.

"She died."

Ukyō froze, aghast, even as oil bubbled on the grill. "Excuse me?"

"It was an accident. She tried to save me. All she had to do was turn off the hot water to the pools in the mountain, but when she stopped the flow, all the heat went through the key. It vaporized her, right before my eyes."

"But she's fine! She's alive!"

"Because I saved her, Ucchan. I had to."

"Well, I didn't know! Shampoo never told me!"

"I know she didn't," said Ranma. "I believed she didn't because you, as my friend, wouldn't attack Akane if you knew. You wouldn't watch while Shampoo smashed her head in if you knew, would you?"

"How dare you!"

"I'll dare if I please, Ucchan; you haven't answered me. I told you what happened. I could tell you more, but I've said what's important. Now it's your turn. What were you waiting for? You had your throwing spatulas. You could've used them anytime. All you had to do was knock the club out of Shampoo's hands. Don't tell me you'd miss—you're not that bad of a martial artist."

"I'd hit her dead in the eye if I wanted to!" said Ukyō.

"So why didn't you?"

She shuddered. Oil burned and smoked on the grill, but the stares and whispers of the patrons distracted her not from inner conflict and turmoil. "Is this how far you'll go?" she said. "Did she ask you to do this? I'm your fiancée too! I deserve you more than she does; I came first! Don't you see?"

"Yeah, I see it now. She tried to marry me."

"All I had to do was mess up her dress, and it'd keep any self-respecting girl from going through with it!"

"And then, in the morning, she took my hand."

"She had no business touching you like that, Ranchan; no one does!"

"She's always close to me."

"She was always just too stubborn to admit it. That's what makes her dangerous now. She understands she's exactly like the rest of us. She knows she wants you."

"And that's what made her want to marry me. That's why she wanted to touch me."

"Yes!"

"And that's why she had to die!"

"Yes!"

All eyes in the restaurant fixed on Ukyō, who withered and shrank under sharp, pointed gazes, but none was more petrifying than Ranma's.

"You wanted her dead," he said. "You were just too afraid to do it yourself."

"No! Ranchan, it's not true!"

"You can't do that again, Ucchan! I won't let you. If you ever hurt her again, if you ever stand by while she's in danger, then you've made your choice. Do either, and you're not my friend anymore, certainly not my fiancée. Promise me you won't do that."

The tears of a girl boiled on the grill.

"Promise me!"

"I promise!" She shied away, covering her face, and through choked sobs, she affirmed her vow. "I promise…"

Ranma breathed deeply. _So it is; it's done. Ucchan won't hurt Akane now. Whatever else she may be, Ucchan holds to her word._

Ukyō braced herself on the edge of the counter-top, her arms stiff and rigid, elbows locked. Her fraying hair came loose from its bow, obscuring her face.

_Even though she wanted Akane gone, she's a good person._ Ranma jumped the hot plate, fetching the box of tissues underneath. _She _is_ a good person._ He held the thin paper to her cheek, and hot tears soaked into the fibers.

The door to the street opened and shut. Ranma paid it no heed.

"I guess this is goodbye for a while," he said. "I wish it weren't that way."

Ukyō looked up, her eyes red, her hair disheveled. "No…"

"But Ucchan—"

"Get away from me!" she said, flailing. "Go away!"

"What? What the hell? Ucchan!"

"Ranma."

The nerves along his spine turned to icicles, stiff and cold and chilly.

"Akane…"

Ukyō glared, struggling in Ranma's grip. "Get out of my shop, you—"

"Ucchan, hey, hey, settle down!" Ranma grabbed her by the wrists and forced her hands to her sides. "I'll handle this."

The chef broke free, however, and with a parting glare, she stormed from the restaurant, dashing upstairs to her private room.

"So," said Akane, "you'll 'handle' me, will you?"

_Aw, give me a break, the last thing I need is for you to misunderstand me, not now! _ "Come on," said Ranma, jumping the counter. "Let's take it outside. Geez, what are you even doing here anyway?"

"Looking for you!"

"I told you I'd be back in an hour!"

"But you didn't tell me you'd stop by Shampoo's on the way!"

_Oh God, how did she…? _ He shut the door, standing tall as thunder boomed in the distance. "Who told you that?"

"I just came from there, you moron! Shampoo told me everything, and now I find Ukyō crying in your arms?"

"Just what's that supposed to mean?"

"I wanted to cry when you told me." A bitter smile crossed her face. "Would that have helped?"

"Akane, you're not making any sense."

"You said you loved her to make her stay around! That's the only explanation."

Tell Ukyō, tell _Shampoo_ that he loved them? Tell them and forsake everything he'd tried to make with her? Everything he hoped to have with her? And she _honestly_ believed it?

"WHAT?" said Ranma. "Are you out of your walnut-sized mind? You'd have to be totally paranoid to even think that!"

"Did you tell her you love her or didn't you?"

"I ain't told nobody that!"

"Not Ukyō, not Shampoo?"

"No way!"

Akane laughed to herself, nodding, pacing. "Then you're a coward."

"A cow—" He fumed. "Am not!"

"You are! You're afraid to lose any one of us because you like it when we fight for you! You take every drop of affection, and you give nothing back!"

"Come on, Akane, what started this?"

"What started this? What you said to me in China started it! What you yelled at the top of the lungs, so the whole world could hear. I guess it's easy to tell a girl you love her when she's about to slip away."

First there was anger. How dare she say these things about him? Did she really think so little of him that she'd doubt his loyalty, his devotion to her?

But she was right. Oh boy was she right. Even if he never said it aloud, didn't he mean it? Did the truth of those words—imagined or not—change because she was safe now, because she lived? What sense was there in loving a corpse and neglecting the woman who came before, the girl who survived?

Selfishly, he'd tried to forget, to start over, but that did no justice by her. Nor him, either.

"So tell me," she said. "Tell me you love me. Right here. Clearly. Tell me so I'll never forget, never question that you do. Please."

A shiver of guilt worked its way from his gut to his mouth. Oh, if only he could take it all back. If he could stop himself from lying to her that afternoon—that wasn't to keep her hopes up; that was for him! So he could avoid her suspicions, her just suspicions! If he could take back his denial, they would be wed right now. And why? Why did he deny it? To protect his dignity from her? He should never want to protect himself from her. He should never need to, either. Why should he be afraid to show her his soul?

"I'm sorry, Akane," said Ranma. "I really am."

Her expression hardened. " 'Sorry?' That's all you can say?"

"What? No!"

"If that's all you're going to say, you should've never said it at all! A real man wouldn't have denied it, Ranma, even if he didn't mean what he said!"

Daggers pierced his chest. He coughed; he choked. "What?"

"A man would've accepted the consequences and broken everything else off when he realized where his heart lay."

"Akane—"

"Face it, Ranma: you are not a man!"

_Not a man! Not a man! _ The words echoed in his mind, like a children's choir of tormentors, jeering him, taunting him.

A choir of petite young women, short yet busty, with smooth, shiny hair tied in single pigtails. Were it not for _her_ he'd have married Akane; were it not for her, he'd be worth her love, but his curse made him a pervert. His curse made him weak. Too weak to stand up to the girls who desired him. Too weak to be a man in Akane's eyes.

"So that's what it is," he said. "That's what it's always been with you, isn't it?"

"You say it like you thought there was something else."

_Well, not anymore. No more languishing. No more pussy-footing around. I'm not going to wait while they mail another cask and hope Pop and the others won't fight over it. I'm going back to the source this time, and a little rain won't stop me! _

#

"Ranma!"

He marched down the road, cracking the concrete with each step.

"Don't you walk away from me, Ranma!" said Akane. "Get back here!"

He dug his hands in his pockets, raised his shoulders. It was a shield to protect him, for he knew she was right. A man would've had the courage to open up, to confess himself.

A man wouldn't walk away from her now, wouldn't flee, if he truly had the guts to say what he felt.

Her pulse raced. "Ranma!"

Ting-ting! The door to restaurant swung open.

"You bitch!"

SMACK!

Akane crumpled; the blood that so fueled her rage throbbed in the welt on her cheek. Still, she regained her wits, stood ready to face her attacker. "Is that it, then?" she yelled at Ukyō. "You want to fight or don't you?"

Ukyō took one look at her and tossed her combat spatula aside. "I can't fight you."

"Why not? Are you a coward too?"

"Because he made me promise! Don't you get it? He told me off for you! You sick little witch who never appreciated all he did! As much as I'd like to rip your tongue out for what you said to him, I can't! Even now, wherever he's going, he's doing it for you."

_He told her off … for me? _

Ukyō dragged her spatula inside slammed the door behind her.

_He told Ukyō … and Shampoo … and I still said those things to him._

Acid welled in her mouth. She swallowed, but her gut clenched, all the same. Chills wracked her body, and the street spun like a top, melting sky and horizon into a kaleidoscope of horror, a grotesque picture, she thought darkly, meant to mirror her soul.

_Oh gods, where did he go? _

"Ranma?"

Only the sound of thunder answered her call.

_Please, please, hear me now. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Ranma! _ "Ranma!"

The first droplet streaked down her blouse, and any tears she might cry were lost in the rain.

#

"Maybe you were right, Akane," he said, glimpsing a girl's reflection in the pond. "Maybe a man—"

The captain sighted him. She broke down the hill, and a beam of light shone from her fingertips.

_A man would know whether to run or fight. A man wouldn't leave you in the dark; he'd tell you the truth, and not just because you needed to hear it, either._

The rock face shattered, and fragments plowed into to the mud, rumbling under Ranma's feet.

_I've spent time enough trying and failing. I've run from this freak, whoever she is, and gone nowhere._

Boulders crashed and shook the earth. A rock slide clattered and fell toward him.

_No more of this._

Kick, punch, WHAM! He shattered stone and clay with his hands, punted the rocks that were too big or fast to crack.

"I can beat your magic tricks!" he called to the captain. "What now?"

The rocks dangled in mid-air, suspended by unseen strings.

"Aw."

CRASH!

Rubble. Dirty rubble. Rubble and darkness and water in the cracks. Ranma pushed against the stone tomb, but tons of rock weighed him down, an unbearable pressure.

_I'm sorry, Akane. I've let you down again._

He let her down because he wasn't a man. Were he a man this instant, he'd muster the strength to break free. But no, he was weak and fragile and thin-skinned. He was a girl, and girls let failure get to them. Girls despair.

"You're not a man!"

Clink, clink. The massive weight on his lungs eased, if only by a hair.

_She's digging me out, come to make sure she finished me._

Maybe it was better that way. He had not the strength to defeat this enemy, nor the smarts. Time and again, Akane offered him an opportunity, a chance to do things differently, but he pushed her away. He called her violent. He denied ever wanting to marry her. If he couldn't see what was right in front of him, how on earth could he overcome this magic, this supernatural control of matter and energy?

No, he would fall here. Fall here and let her go.

"If you go first, wait for me, Ranma."

He squirmed. He kicked at the rocks, but they went nowhere.

"Ranma! Get ready to make a run for it! Hurry!"

Give up here, and waste all her sacrifice. Forget the heat and smell of her that permeated her clothes, the last of her possessions that she left behind. Forget the mute, inanimate doll that threw itself into Saffron's fire and smiled when he was safe.

Forget it all.

_No… _

The rain grew louder, the weight less repressive. One punch, and he could break this coffin, and then what? She would only punish him again.

"I'm going ahead now, Ranma. I'll wait for you."

That was it. That was the one thing he could never forget. Toss away all the joy and happiness, the devotion, the sacrifice. Embrace the despair, the helplessness of being buried alive, of holding a girl's clothes in your hands and knowing she would never punch you or kick you again.

Or show her immaculate smile.

For in the depths of despair, there was but one thing to save Ranma, one weapon he could never muster the right state of mind to use, until now. It was a weapon of perfection.

The captain uncovered him, glimpsed his face. She blinked for a moment, perhaps surprised to find him alive.

"Oh, I know you," said Ranma bleakly. "But I think you forgot something."

A column of pink light blasted the rubble pile, drilled a crater and smashed the captain into the ground.

Ranma scrambled from the center depression and towered over his prey. _Now I've got you. Don't think for a second I'm going to waste this chance! _ "Mōkō Takabisha!"

Yellow light bored into the side of the crater, burying the girl further in rock and dirt. The crater smoked and burned, but the downpour drenched all the fires. Steam wafted from the ground and dissipated in the droplets.

_I win._

Ranma put his back to a tree trunk and slid to the ground. Once the rain passed, the waters would recede. He could be a man again.

_Look at me now, Akane. Are you proud of me? _

Rustle. A boulder lurched and tumbled to the center of the crater.

_What's this? _ Ranma bounded to the crack in the ground and put his ear close.

Beneath the earth, the sounds of coughing and clawing died away in the rain.

Ranma's stomach knotted. _Sheesh, is she dying in there, or is this just a trick? _

The struggle stopped. Rainwater filled the cracks in seeping mud.

_Aw hell._ He reached an arm into the pit. "Hey, if you're in trouble, take my hand, but if this is a trick, I'll rip it off. You understand?"

Five fingers grabbed his wrist and held firm.

"All right, here we go!"

The body pulled back on him. His feet sank in soft, slippery ground.

"You got magic powers or something?" said Ranma. "Give me some traction here!"

A break in the rain—magical or otherwise—opened overhead.

"Well, that's a start." Ranma yanked on the arm. He gritted his teeth, grunting, yelling. "Come on!"

The captain's body exploded out of the rock pit and tumbled into outer crater. She lay back, flat on the ground, and closed her eyes. Rainwater splashed over them, and the downpour resumed.

"Hey." Ranma shook her, checking for signs of life. "You okay?"

A moan.

"I'll take that as a maybe," said Ranma. "You going to tell me what I did to piss you off?"

A groan.

"I guess not."

Cuts and scrapes marred the girl's body, ripped at her clothes. She scratched at them and winced.

"Easy now. Let me take a look at those." They weren't too bad, nothing a good bandage wouldn't handle. Ranma cleaned the dirt from a wound on her arm, but as he wiped the gunk away, a film of bubbles formed where water met the skin.

"Soap?" he said. "Why do you have waterproof—"

The captain grabbed his arm with both hands, staring him down.

_I should've known. I should've known not to help this—_

She pulled a throwing star; she slashed!

And dark red blood seeped from Ranma's thigh, dripping down his leg.

_Should've known._

The captain eased him to the jungle floor, pulled his hands behind his back, and tied them with rope.

_Heh. Maybe I've made myself another fiancée._

The world dimmed and spun, and the sound of the cold rain drowned out all else.

_Then again, maybe not._

_**Identity**_** 01, End**

* * *

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	7. The Village: Prelude

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

* * *

**The Village**

_A chapter in four acts_

**Prelude**

For beings of great power, life's pulse is like water on a pond. Every motion on the surface ripples to the shore and back again. For an insect that walks on water, each wave is a roaming hill or mountain. For a frog on a lily, one cannot avoid these waves, only ignore them and damp them, lest they add atop another and overturn the pad. These ripples hardly move most people, at least in ways they know or understand, but if you quiet your mind and listen, you'll hear the ripples' whispers. They speak of places near and far. They tell the tales of men, of dreams and failures melded together. The ripples say much to those who know how to hear them, how to feel them.

On cold stone a woman knelt. The warm light of torches, three to each wall, bathed her in orange and golden glow. Quiet and still, she felt the waves, the energies that ride on waves of ki, the breath of life. Waves they were, not ripples, and like the frog on a lily, the woman steeled herself. She made her soul heavy and sapped the momentum of these waves. A wave unhindered stirs the hearts of men. They become sources for further waves, and the energy landscape distorts, rife with chaos and confusion. To those who can't feel the ripples, this may prove no bother, but to unlock the full powers of nature, one must feel them, know them, and be swayed by them, an unending battle for control of one's soul. Nevertheless, the woman buckled down, and the waves that struck her recoiled, weaker and shallower for it.

A disturbance. A series of ripples, as if a child dipped his finger in the pond and dragged it along the edge.

"My lady?"

The woman smiled. The ripples foretold the visitor; they always did.

"Lady Sindoor?"

She opened her eyes. "You interrupt my meditation."

"My apologies; I beg forgiveness."

"Begging does not warrant my pardon. You bear news?"

"The Captain of the Guard returns."

Sindoor rose. "Then no forgiveness is necessary. I shall meet her."

"Yes, my lady."

From her meditation chambers, Sindoor strode into the main hall. Two lines of servants bowed before her, clear the center path for her and the jade throne. Sindoor strode past the empty chair. She walked the aisle to a pair of double doors at the end and burst into daylight, the long shadows of dusk. On the place grounds, the warriors of the village sparred, tireless defenders of their art. Out here, among mock battles and lessons in combat, the ripples reflected and interfered. They built to dangerous peaks; their energy demanded release.

Thud, punch, WHAM! Two warriors, locked in a duel, lost the graces of their training. They fought and battled ruthlessly. They wrestled on the ground, kicking up dust and dirt.

"Control yourselves, gentlemen!" said Sindoor. "The Sieve cannot help you now."

The pair of sparring partners wiped themselves clean of the earth, their heads low in reverence. "Forgive us, Lady Sindoor."

"I forgive you both, but mind your auras and how you project them. Now more than ever, we must be vigilant."

The two warriors nodded, and under the watchful gazes of their peers, they sparred again. And though Sindoor descended the steps to the main gate, the echoes of their battle followed her, a microcosm for the unease and distress that permeated the village—feelings Sindoor knew herself, for she felt them in the ripples. The stone of the palace walls damped not these energies.

_The people need their Sieve to protect them, to lend control when it is most elusive._

And along the path to the palace, the solution she'd sought approached. A caravan shuffled down the rocky trail. A party of four they were, with a girl of reddish-brown hair in the lead. The two behind her carried another, whose wrists and ankles they bound to a tree branch, and the last brought up the rear.

"What news do you bring, captain?" asked Sindoor. "This captive—is she the one we seek?"

The captain shook her head. "No, my lady, but she knows who we're after."

"And who is that?"

The captain looked to her prisoner, whose clothes and pigtail dangled against gravity, lifeless.

"Saffron," said the captain. "She knows Saffron."

* * *

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	8. The Village I: Valley of Magic

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

* * *

**Valley of Magic**

_Chapter Two, Act One_

He opened his eyes to light and shadow, to shapes formless and unclear. Birds called to one another, singing their songs of mating.

He rubbed his head, blinking. "Morning already?"

The blur sharpened. His eyes focused. Straw walls enclosed a single room, and sunlight streamed through gaps in the fibers. On a pale green mat an earthen bowl lay. Small white beans tumbled over the edge, spilling on the floor.

"Subtle," said Ranma. "Guess I should eat." He rolled over, brushing the dirt from his clothes. With his back to the wall, he sat up, placing the bowl in his lap.

The sunlight cast a narrow beam over his arm. A red mark appeared on his wrist.

"What the hell…?" He sat up, cradling the wound, and touched his fingers to the irritated skin.

The skin tingled, hot to the touch.

_Strange. A cut would bleed. A bruise would be yellow or blue. This isn't a combat wound. This is—_

He turned over his other wrist, revealing an identical area of irritation, a region of chafing.

A burn.

He cursed under his breath. "That's right. They tied me up." He pulled up his pant legs, exposing more burns. "Tied me up like a hog to roast."

Not that he sat back and let them cook him alive over a fire. His memory was clouded, groggy, but fleeting images of snapping rope came to mind. The trees uprooted themselves to block his path. Again, his enemies tackled him. They cut him with a poisoned blade. The light of day faded, and he slept again. Even now, he bore the marks of those encounters. His pants split at three different places, and beneath the holes, cloth bound his wounds: three shallow cuts to the thigh.

"Who do these people think they are, magicians?" said Ranma. "Take anyone on earth they please, why don't they."

Take anyone who turns into a girl before their eyes.

_Am I still…? _ Ranma unbuttoned his shirt, exposing the fleshy curves of his breasts. _Yeah, still a girl. Damn._

Still a girl, thanks to these people. What was the problem? Did the sight of a guy trying to cure his curse offend them? That was the reason, wasn't it? They had to know. The girl who cut him—she had soap on her hands.

_Bitch isn't even here to gloat. Save a girl's life and this is what you get. No cure, no nothing._

Through the doorway, a pair of villagers walked a cart down the main road. Their cargo was ordinary—bags of wheat and barley—but the way they moved their load was not. The cart's wheels turned, but no animal pulled it.

"How about that," said Ranma. "Guess they're all magical." Climbing to his feet, Ranma grabbed a handful of beans and gobbled them down. "What, no guards?" He peeked out the doorway. "Nobody watching me?"

The villagers passed him by. They paid him no notice.

Ranma stopped in the doorway, at a loss. _I could run,_ he thought, _but I don't know the way out of here. I could fight, but there's nobody to stop me. These guys sure aren't trying hard to keep me around._

Across the road, a group of kids dashed into view. They pelted one another with bolts of ki, as if sticks or rocks were too mundane to play with.

_What could these people really want from me? _

With too many questions to answer, Ranma stepped up, into the sunlight. Here he'd begin his search: for the way back home, the reason why they took him, or just the girl who betrayed his kindness. Whatever the goal, the answer lay in this village, and he'd level it if he had to. His compassion for a people who confined him extended only so far.

#

The village lay in a valley, running north to south between the mountains. A river flowed through the basin, cutting the farmlands in two. Further from the banks, the fields gave way to huts, the central area of the village, where smiths, weavers, and other artisans made their homes. In this way, the village seemed typical, like a textbook example from a class in ancient history, but the structure of the village wasn't the remarkable thing. Nay, it was _how_ they went about their business. The farmers' plows upturned the soil without driver or beast to run them. The smith tempered swords through inner heat and fire. Baskets assembled themselves with but a passing glance from their weavers.

"It's the way we work," said a potter, one of the few villagers Ranma met that spoke Japanese. "Why should I shape the clay with my hands when I know what I want it to do? You people are the ones who have it backwards. What if you should injure your fingers? Then how would you work?"

"What if you lose your powers?" asked Ranma.

The potter laughed. "Not possible."

"Right. Don't suppose you can't tell me what I'm doing here, then."

The potter smiled knowingly. "You must be the one who broke the Sieve."

"The 'Sieve'?"

"The Sieve cleanses us," said the potter. "It keeps us pure and unhindered." The potter bathed a ceramic jar in the heat from his hands. "Strange, though. Just looking at you, I wouldn't have thought you could break the Sieve. You'd have to be a powerful outsider to do that. No, I don't sense that from you."

"You think I'm not powerful?"

The potter eyed a chunk of clay. The piece separated from the bulk and flew, splatting in Ranma's face.

"If you couldn't stop that, no, I don't think so."

He was an aberration, though. Most of the villagers—even the respected, cultured merchants—refused an audience with him, either for ignorance of Japanese or fear of him, the "outsider," as the potter had said. Some took one look at him on the road and abruptly sped away. A curious thing. Kids at home always said he seemed Chinese for the shirts he wore. Now, against the drab, functional clothing of the villagers, he couldn't look more foreign. That was the stranger thing, aside from their powers anyway. Not their opinion of fashion or anything like that.

They all were like kids.

In the center crossroads, Ranma scanned the village and its inhabitants. Even the potter—he spoke oddly, yes, but he couldn't be a boy of more than eighteen or nineteen years. The captain, the "bitch," as he affectionately called her—she seemed young too. Not a soul over thirty he spotted on his wanderings through the village, and when a young woman walked a girl by the hand through the marketplace, he had to wonder—was that the girl's younger sister … or her daughter?

_No older than twenty-five. Probably a ten-year-old girl…_ He shuddered. _That's almost like me having a kid right now._

Despite this red herring, Ranma found the village eerily peaceful. The same skills they used to fight also herded the sheep from the pasture lands. To irrigate crops, a villager waded in the river. He parted the stream. He shaped a flood of water and guided its recession, back to the riverbanks. These people used their abilities to sustain life (and not in the sense of thievery like a deadbeat panda would). It was a pity that Ranma and his friends back home never thought to do so. Not that he'd ask to build a skyscraper with his bare hands, but if Ryōga and Mousse cut him a break once in a while, if his tangled network of fiancées stayed their hands rather than punish him for consorting with others, if Akane just once gave him a chance to speak his mind instead of punching first and punching later (no, there's no time to ask questions there), maybe they could all do something with their lives. Maybe he could get out of school in one piece and focus on his training like he always meant to do. Build a dojo. Not just the wooden floors and walls but the students, too. The teachers. Might be nice to school a few squirts in the basics, to train some older students who respected his knowledge for a change, to teach alongside a companion, a partner…

A wife. Akane would, of course, klutz up any instruction she gave to students. She'd invite a prospect to spar with her and throw her student through the dojo wall.

Ranma laughed to himself. Not exactly the definition of easing recruits into training, but it was her style, her over-enthusiasm—at times stubborn and always irrational yet attractive, all the same. It suited her better than when she gave up. Akane didn't surrender lightly, but when she did, it wounded her. It hurt her pride. When another martial artist might concede and redouble their efforts for the next bout, Akane took every loss to heart. So did Ranma, at times. Were these people, wielders of great magic, the same?

He huffed. Any admiration he felt for the villagers and their art he put aside. Leaving this place was his priority. Whether he had to escape by force or negotiate his freedom, he'd do it, and if he had the chance to deck the girl whose life he saved, that'd be a nice bonus.

But when it came to escaping, Ranma was at a loss. To that point, no guard had stopped him on the road. The villagers stared at him (what, a bright red "Chinese" shirt didn't help him blend in? ) but otherwise avoided contact, save for the help of the potter. Two mountains on either side of the valley obscured the horizon. In light of day, Ranma had no idea where they'd taken him, and he doubted the stars would give him much clue, either. Maybe, judging by the rocky terrain, he was somewhere in the Jusenkyō basin, but how long had it been since they captured him? A day? A week? How fast did they move as they carried him, bound to a stick?

Atop a wooden bridge, Ranma leaned over the railing, kicking a stone into the water. _With my luck, these guys can just vanish into thin air and reappear wherever they choose. Could've taken me a hundred kilometers in the blink of an eye._ He scanned both ends of sides of the valley, watching villagers pass by and go about their lives—trading grain and fruit to the merchant for woodwork, sewing together old shirts and blankets to mend the rips from daily wear.

From the near bank, a tall, well-built man glared at Ranma. He walked past the tents of the market bazaar and browsed the goods, but he maintained this death stare, as if a simple look could shake and intimidate.

_Don't worry; the strange and terrible outsider won't bother asking you for directions. Thanks anyway._ Ranma paced over the bridge, puzzling over his predicament. He had no time for creepy villagers with small eyes.

But the man kept him in his sights. Discreetly, perhaps, for he chatted with local merchants, exchanging spices for jewelry, but he never wandered far from the bridge. He broke his steady gaze on Ranma only when his target dared look back at him.

_So, somebody's watching me after all._ Ranma jogged off the bridge, into the market. Someone watching him had to know something. A stranger wouldn't tail him for no reason. Was he following orders? Did he fear the outsider too?

Ranma's target, the man who watched him, strolled about the marketplace. He talked to a merchant over a woolen blanket, peeking at Ranma from the corner of his eye.

The patrons gave Ranma a wide berth, and he waded through the crowd, looking, searching. With a guy's body it'd be easy—he'd take this goon in a choke hold and make him say what he knew—but a girl's arms wouldn't muster the strength to strangle. A girl's legs wouldn't get him high enough to ambush his prey and initiate the hold. No, with this girl body, he'd have to get creative.

Ranma stopped at a blacksmith's booth, where blades of every kind lined up, polished and gleaming in the sun. He picked up a light, thin sword, a weapon akin to the Japanese katana but straighter, not curved.

_This is probably a little overkill._

The blacksmith glared, snatching the blade away without care or worry for Ranma—his hasty motion nicked Ranma's palm, drawing blood.

Ranma curled his hand into a fist, bowing before the offended merchant, and as the man verbally abused him in Chinese, Ranma backed away, his head low. The merchant would see deference and guilt. What he wouldn't see was the cool, steely grin Ranma bore. Not for the sword he didn't get away with—no, that was too obvious, too easily noticed—but for the small, fist-sized dagger he fit under his sleeve. He set his eyes on his target.

"A little cool for late March, don't you think?"

The stranger blinked. He handed a necklace back to its merchant and responded to Ranma in Chinese. He bowed and walked away.

"I fondled your mother with an octopus!"

The stranger flinched.

"It was fun, but I should be going home now," said Ranma, inching toward the edge of the market. "Or maybe next time I'll use a blowfish. How's that sound?"

He dashed for the tree line, his shoes slipping on the shifting rocks. He wove between the trunks and, when the huts and river disappeared through the thicket, he scurried up some branches, into the canopy. Clearing his mind, he steadied himself, bottled his aura. He practiced the ultimate art of stealth, and like the untrained eye mistakes a nighthawk for a bumblebee, a gaze fixed on him would slip off, as if he were never there.

The stranger jogged through the woods. He closed his eyes and held his hand in front of him, as is feeling the air's currents, its flow.

_Come on, just a little closer now… _

He wandered under Ranma's tree. He looked left and right.

He looked up.

Ranma dove!

Swipe!

Duck, punch, slam! Ranma shoved the stranger into bark. He pulled the knife and pressed the tip to the spine. "Don't think you want to struggle too much here, buddy," said Ranma. "I've got to think even your magic can't do a whole lot against a stab wound."

The stranger babbled in Chinese.

"Come off it! I know you understand me; you twitched when I insulted your mother. What am I doing here? Why are you watching me?"

The stranger spat. "The Lady showed you kindness. She let you move about the village freely."

"Kindness? Let me tell you what 'kindness' is. Kindness is saving a girl from dying in a hole in the ground. Kindness isn't getting my leg slashed for my trouble and being taken to meet the parents."

"The Lady has business with you. You cannot refuse her."

"What business? Stuff about this Sieve of yours?"

"You know of Saffron."

"Saffron? What—" He stopped, shaking himself. "Who's Saffron?"

"You can't pretend you don't know him. You said we were weak, like him."

"I don't remember you being there, pal."

The stranger turned, facing him. The knife flew from Ranma's hands, and the stranger caught it. "This doesn't threaten me." He tossed the knife away, losing it in the grass. "You're the weak one here, not us."

"If I'm so weak, how'd I beat that girl, the one who brought me here?" Ranma took up a defensive stance, eying the stranger between his raised arms. "I took out four of your goons. What do you say to that?"

"You did _not_ defeat the captain!"

"Oh I didn't? What's she to you? Your sister? Your girlfriend?"

Through the thicket, a trio of villagers approached. They crouched behind thin, tapered shafts of wood. They searched the treeline, signaling each other with their hands.

_This is it, then. Run into the wilderness or face the guy with the stick. I think I'll take the wilderness._

"You don't know who we are," said the stranger. "You cannot comprehend what you're dealing with."

Ranma grinned slyly. "I think I comprehend just fine." He touched his hands to the stranger's chest, pressed their hips together. "You're saying she's cuter than I am."

The stranger blinked. "What?"

"Is it because you've known her longer?" Ranma giggled. "I can be cute, too. Haven't you wondered what it'd be like, being with a Japanese girl?"

Confounded, the villager grabbed Ranma's shoulder, pushing lightly. "I have no interest in … whatever it is you're proposing."

"Good," said Ranma. "Neither do I!" Ranma jerked his knee, and the cap smashed into the stranger's gut—or, perhaps, somewhere lower.

The stranger groaned, keeling over in pain.

"Don't worry; I know the feeling!" WHAM! Ranma punched him through the tree for good measure, snapping the trunk in two.

The three villagers on approach called to one another, rushing to action.

"Catch you later, freaks!" Ranma dashed away, weaving past rock and branch, and though the villagers felled the forest in his wake, Ranma escaped to a clearing. He huddled among the roots and peered out.

The forest lay empty.

"Can't be that easy." Ranma jogged the clearing's edge, searching for enemies. "Lost them that fast?"

The clearing, a meadow of short grasses and weeds, left him exposed. Better to hide among the trees, where they might not see him, even if it gave them natural ammunition in every leaf and branch. He looked the sun, which journeyed overhead, fleeing the eastern sky.

"Long time to dark, huh? Better get a move on."

He made for the far end and ran on, for there was safety in distance. The further he got from the village, the better his chances of entering territory unfamiliar to both parties. If he could stretch them out, their supply lines would snap, unable to give chase. He may have walked into their laps at Jusenkyō, but this would be different. This time, they'd have to find him. This time—

"Wha?"

He'd walk into the meadow?

"What the hell is this?" Ranma stepped gingerly on the stiff, carpet-like grass. He yanked on a weed, and the shallow roots came out in a clump of earth. The mountain before him shaded half the meadow, the part furthest from the village behind.

"Two clearings in a row?" He marched forth, into the shadow. He craned his neck, eying the mountain peak, his landmark, even as the sun fell behind it. By touch he navigated the forest again, stepping over rocks without watching the ground. His hands found the tree trunks and pushed their bark away.

But the canopy thickened. It blocked out the horizon; it concealed the mountainside.

Ranma's pace quickened. He hurried to a jog, but the foliage, the sky itself, clouded over, blocking all sight of the peak, until …

He met daylight. The clearing. The dying weed he himself uprooted.

"No way."

He stamped out the leafy weed, rubbing his sole in the dirt. He stomped forward and latched onto a tree trunk, shimmying up its rough skin. With branches for footholds, he climbed to the top, breached the canopy, and looked out on the forest from above.

A mountain before him. A mountain behind him. Clearing and clearing, perfectly matched and ordered in an infinite line. In the distance, a girl shaded her eyes with her hand, clinging to the top of a tree. Ranma tilted his head to get a better look, but she tilted with him.

"Hey!" He waved his arms. "Over here!"

The girl never looked at him, but she too reached for the sky, signaling someone.

Ranma froze.

And so did she.

He waved a hand.

And so did she.

He turned about the top of the tree, looking back where another mountain lay.

Sure enough, a second girl gazed away from him, strangely contorted around a tree's topmost branches.

Ranma smacked his palm to his forehead. "What the hell is this? Damn magicians think they can do anything they please!"

But this was no simple parlor trick. Here they'd caught him, trapped him in this hall of mirrors, forever to study his own reflection. No, not _his_ reflection, either. Trapped as a girl. That's what they'd done. They didn't lock him in form, but without water and heat to change back, he'd die of thirst in this body, wandering their little mousetrap, sweating out every last drop.

"No way," he said, clenching his fist. "No way in _hell_ I'll die a girl!"

A shout! A throwing knife whizzed past! The group of villagers crowded about the tree.

"Oh no you don't!" Ranma leapt from branch to branch. He jumped to ground, landing on one knee, and dashed for the clearing.

WHAM! A shaft shot out and clotheslined him. He tumbled; he fell backward on the grass. The cold, metal tip of a battle staff held him there, dangling between his eyes.

"Only a Sorcerer can navigate the Maze," said the figure. "We maintain it so outsiders like you can't come in … or get out."

The other three villagers emerged from the woods, dragging Ranma to his feet. He faced his captor, a girl with hard eyes and reddish-brown hair.

"Ah, look," said Ranma. "It's the bitch."

Thud. She clubbed him with the weighted tip of the staff, knocking the spit from his mouth.

"Come on, really?" He coughed, wheezing. "That the best you can do? You hit like a girl!"

Thud. A splinter scraped across his face, drawing blood.

"Take her back to her hut," said the captain. "Stand guard until the Advisor arrives."

"And then, captain?" said one of them.

"Then our guest will meet the Lady."

* * *

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	9. The Village II: The Sorcerer's Den

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

* * *

**The Sorcerer's Den**

_Chapter Two, Act Two_

In the midday sun, a party walked along the west bank of the river, heading downstream. At its center, Ranma kept pace with the four staves that held him in place. At its rear, the Advisor, a man named Kohl, hobbled behind the pack, massaging sorely bruised pride.

"Hey, for all I knew, you were one of these guys," said Ranma, running his finger along the tip of a staff. "How should I tell who's who?"

"The warriors of the Sorcerer Guard wear black," said Kohl. "The palace attendants wear maroon."

"I guess that's smart—not having your best warriors wear red shirts."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing."

The fields downriver gave way to rocky crags and sparse weeds. In the distance, far from the banks of the river, the tree line followed, hugging the edges of the valley. Under the mountain's shadow, Ranma walked the western shore, treading on the wet, slippery stones of the bank. Currents collided, rapids roared, yet Ranma paid them no heed. He watched downstream, where water fell off the edge of the world.

"I don't see this palace you guys have been talking about."

"You will."

The party halted at the ledge. The thunderous bellow of crashing water drowned out all other sounds. The waterfall kicked up a mist, shrouding the rest the valley below in white haze.

"Won't see much like this," said Ranma, waving the mist away.

"Guards, distance."

The warriors stepped back, their staves high but at ease. Kohl entered the void they left and offered his palm. "Take my hand."

"Why?"

"You do us no good if you cannot see. Give me your hand."

Ranma grabbed the open hand and squeezed. "How's that for you? Not too much, I hope."

Kohl huffed. He closed his eyes, and in one sweeping motion, he wiped away the fog and mist below them. The shroud receded of water receded, revealing a series of stone rings. Packed with earth, they stacked on top of each other, as if a child built them with premade blocks. The rings shrunk with each level, culminating in a narrow spire, a tower that rose above Ranma and Kohl, even over the mountains on either side. A fortress of dark stone, entirely clear and pristine, down to the small specks that walked its grounds.

"The mist was just an illusion?" said Ranma.

"There are other ways to penetrate this barrier." Kohl pointed out the way down, a path that ran diagonally along the cliffside. "Someone looking for the palace would probably find it. Someone not looking…"

Ranma shuffled his feet, kicking a pebble over the path's edge. "Would find nothing at all."

"Yes."

_And somebody not looking for this village would get lost in that Maze thing and never find us, either._

The path wound about rocky walls, as if carved from the solid face. At the pond by the waterfall, the party hit the lower valley floor, and the spire above them shot into the sky, like a needle aspiring to heaven. Villagers—servants, guards—sighted the group's arrival and parted, opening the road to the palace gate. Before the ironwork, two guards moved the metal with their minds. The locks turned, separated, and exposed an earthen tunnel, leading to the courtyard, the grassy training grounds. On these fields, men and women bowed before each other and leapt into battle, punching, swiping, or calling down lighting to smite their partners.

"These are the warriors of the Sorcerer Guard," said Kohl, leading the party to the next gate. "The captain is their leader, but she is not here now. Her lieutenant, Xiu, trains the Guard in her stead."

A short boy of dark complexion and big black eyes, Xiu paced the outer ring, intervening in sparring matches when his subordinates showed poor form or maneuvers. He shouted corrections to their faces, demonstrated his superior execution on their bodies, throwing a man into the wall of the next ring. And when that man fell to the ground admist rubble and dirt, Xiu walked away, jumping on the next pair that offended him.

"Nice guy," said Ranma.

Kohl nodded. "He isn't known for his good demeanor."

"Why isn't the captain here to train them instead?"

"She has other matters to attend to."

"Something more important than training her men?"

"Something."

The second gate opened, and a pinhole of light poked through the darkness.

"Does she have a name?" asked Ranma. "The captain, I mean."

Kohl motioned to Ranma's guards. A staff point shoved Ranma from the rear.

"You guys need to practice subtlety, you know that? And playing nice with others, too."

"This isn't recreation."

"Hate to see what you guys do for fun."

With each gate passed, they delved deeper into the compound. The Sorcerer Guard, on training duty, occupied most of the outer rings, but their exercises varied from level to level. Sometimes they sparred directly, like on the first ring. On others, they focused on the more magical aspects of their arts. They shot fire from their fingertips, and the roots of the earth sprouted to bind their foes.

On the inner rings, the warriors of the Guard deferred to priests and healers. Medics erased sores from the skin; weak, atrophied muscles bulged to full strength and function, and their owner walked on legs that wouldn't carry him just ten minutes before.

"It's difficult to practice magic on people," said Kohl. "The body resists invasion from these energies. One must be trained to use the arts for healing, and I fear what would happen if those lessons were used for war instead."

"Even the Guard doesn't know how?"

"It is forbidden."

Ranma nodded. "I think I call that a good thing."

Say what he would of the Sorcerers' hospitality, Ranma had to give credit for their magic. Folks back home—like Mousse and Ryōga—used what magic they knew as tricks, one-off weapons meant to distract more than assert victory. Ranma himself was no exception there. Tornadoes and ki bolts were gimmicks, and that bothered him. A good martial artist integrates his techniques into his style, uses them as a consequence of his actions, not as a last-ditch tactic or a one-hit wonder. Even the Hiryū Shōten Ha and its variations, twists on the twister that he himself invented and implemented on the fly—those accomplishments gave him great pride, yet had any of those failed, what did he have left? Grit and determination? Sure, they worked sometimes. They worked when victory most mattered, at the base of a mountain somewhere around here, but a martial artist never stops learning, never ends his quest to be better, stronger, faster, and if he knew a tenth of the techniques these Sorcerers practiced, well, Ryōga wouldn't be able to touch him, surely. He wouldn't need to be close by to protect someone he cared about.

_Care about. Yeah, that's it. You'd kind of have to be a heartless bastard not to want that, right? I mean, hey, I could stand to spend a few days with these guys. Maybe even a week or two. If, you know, they weren't holding me against my will. That bit's kind of annoying._

But they were going to ask him things, ask him about Saffron. Why Saffron? Why, of all the inconsequential matters, did they want to know about Saffron? It didn't make any sense. They attacked well before he even said a word about the winged prick, yet that was all Kohl could talk about.

Did they know he was dead?

_Maybe._

Did they know Ranma killed him?

He winced. Perhaps he'd thought before that it was killing, but as they passed from ring to ring of the palace grounds, Ranma hoped maybe he could turn it around, if only in his own mind. Surely he couldn't say he killed Saffron when the boy wonder lived on in an egg.

Useless, meaningless guessing. These Sorcerers knew things; they knew more than Ranma could know, and more than that, he didn't even know what they knew. Or what they didn't know. He didn't know what they didn't know, and he didn't not know what they thought they knew.

_Wait, what? _

At any rate, he had knowledge they wanted, and that was the only reason they should keep him safe, unharmed, or alive. If they wanted what he knew, he should get something for it.

The party stopped. At the tower's entrance, the locks to the outer doors ground against each other and slid into the walls. "This is a great honor for an outsider," said Kohl. "You should show the proper respect."

"Oh yeah," said Ranma. "I'll try to curb my enthusiasm."

Kohl snarled. At his command, the doors parted, revealing the inner chambers. Torches cast flickering shadows on the court, and its members lined up in two files, kneeling for Kohl and his men. The outer doors closed, echoing through the tower—a low vibration, but with the wave of a hand, the monarch of the tribe silenced the overtones. She rose from her throne, taking a torch with her, so all could see her as she made her claim.

"The outsider Captain Wuya brought is among us," she said. "You will leave me with her."

The servants bowed, once for the Lady, once for Kohl, and exited through two rear doors of the throne room.

"Quite the setup you got here," said Ranma, sliding his shoes on the stone floor. "Make it yourself?"

The woman smiled. "It took some years to draft and months, with our best builders, to assemble."

"Months? To build this?"

"We work efficiently. I mean not to be boastful, but I can imagine, outside here, a hundred men can move a hundred times their weight in stone, perhaps even enough to fill this room?"

Ranma shrugged. A man in a crane or a bulldozer could, but how many more build the machine? "Depends how you look at it, yeah."

"A hundred of my people can move whole mountain peaks and assemble great dams in minutes. It is only fitting that the monument to our skills push those abilities to their limits."

"I guess so."

The Lady smiled to herself. "You must forgive me. It isn't often we have visitors. My name is Sindoor; I am leader of our people. And you?"

"Saotome Ranma."

"A maiden who rides a wild horse?"

Ranma glared. "That's not exactly what it means."

"Forgive me. Is my Japanese appropriate?"

"Appropriate? Sheesh, yours is probably better than mine. Nobody's really explained that bit to me yet."

"We had another visitor once, a traveler it seemed. He wandered into the village, and in exchange for meals and shelter, he shared with us his language and culture. It was an enlightening experience for all of us. I advised most of the Guard and the palace servants to learn from him, and I think we are better for it."

"Yeah, well, history lessons are good. And hey, it's convenient for me, or else I wouldn't understand a thing you say."

"Yes," said Sindoor. "If not for that, Captain Wuya wouldn't have understood what you said about Saffron, yes?"

Ranma shifted his weight, looking away. "No, I guess not."

"You know him," said Kohl. "How? Why?"

"Please," said Sindoor. "Let us not rush matters. After all, it may be common for outsiders to know the legend of Saffron. They might tell it to their children to frighten them at night."

Ranma scoffed. "You want to scare a kid these days? Tell them Santa's going to give them coal for Christmas. A power hungry runt with a god complex doesn't scare me."

"So it isn't common knowledge," said Sindoor. "You are Japanese, you are foreign to this land, yet you know of Saffron."

_Well, aren't you clever._

"It is most strange, isn't it? After all, we may isolate ourselves now, but we haven't always. We've dealt with strangers before. Once there were men who represented a 'Party.' They threatened us; they threatened all the tribes of the basin if we resisted, but we did resist. We fought them. We pitted magic against their great machines and weaponry, and there was death, on both sides. After that, they left us alone. They said we could live in peace, as long as we made no effort to 'publicize' ourselves, to make our resistance known to the world at large." She met Ranma's gaze, cool and confident. "The Party wouldn't let knowledge of our ways reach the outside, surely not a legend so dangerous as Saffron's. So, I must ask you, Saotome Ranma, _how_ do you know it?"

"You've met him," said Kohl. "You've fought him. You said we were weak, like him. You could only know that through battle."

Ranma looked between them, silent, uncertain. Any answer could be a wrong one. Say he fought Saffron and survived—nay, that he killed him—and what would they do? What if they worshiped him, saw him as a god? Would they punish his defeat as blasphemy?

_You've got to be kidding; nobody in their right mind would worship that bastard except the people who need him. But what do these guys want, anyway? _

"You won't answer?" asked Sindoor.

"I'd like to help you," said Ranma, "but you don't make much sense. Say I know about Saffron and all that—what's it to you? Why should I help out if you're keeping me here?"

"Denier!" said Kohl. "You deny your true form, yet you expect mercy from us?"

"What, _that's_ the problem? Get me some hot water, and I'll fix that right now!"

Kohl growled, but Sindoor raised a hand, holding him back. "That won't be necessary," she said. "Will it, Kohl?"

Kohl huffed. "No, my lady."

"Tend to the business of the court, would you? I shall speak with Saotome Ranma."

Kohl bowed, glaring at Ranma, and departed by the one of the rear doors.

"That guy doesn't like me," said Ranma. "Not him or that captain of yours."

"You must forgive Kohl," said Sindoor. "Before we closed the village to outsiders, we encountered the power of the cursed springs. Hostility against such beings runs deep in our people."

"You know, you can say I _must_ forgive him, but that doesn't make me want to. Why should I tell you guys anything? You kidnapped me."

"I understand your lack of sympathy. Perhaps I can show you something to change your mind."

"I've been on enough trips through your village, I think."

"We're not going far." Sindoor circled the room, locking the rear doors. "Tell me, Saotome Ranma: you've had some skirmishes with the Guard now. Do you think us powerful?"

"I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"A person who wields the forces of nature, as we do, must exhibit great restraint. We endeavor to maintain control over our abilities, to not let them drive us, but the nature of our discipline is that we don't always succeed."

"Sounds like that's not my problem."

Sindoor laid a hand on his shoulder. "Oh?"

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! A drum pounded; its vibrations carried in the ground. To the call of war, the Sorcerers armed themselves. They donned leather armor; they sharpened axe and spear. In broad daylight, the warriors of the village mustered by the waterfall and lake, raising their weapons to the sky.

"Some time ago, we went to war with one of the neighboring tribes. The losses we suffered forced us to close the village to the outside, so that we might rebuild and recover." Sindoor grabbed Ranma's shoulder blade, unwilling to let him wander, to break the vision. "They've faded with time, but I was there—I remember—so I know what the battle felt like to me. Though I've tried, I can't forget."

Ranma waved his hand through a sweaty leather helmet, but his fingers touched only air.

"We marched to battle to defend our village, to see it safe from those who'd destroy us. Overnight, we evacuated the lower quarter; we sent the mothers and children upriver, past the waterfall, where, if we should fall, the force of the water would give them time to escape. We never truly considered we might fail. We believed our control over the elements would carry the day, that the river would be our best weapon against the enemy. And if that failed, we needn't look far. We had our prince, our captain, to lead us."

Sindoor pointed out a tall figure, clad in blue-dyed armor. At his side, a huge, frightening sword—as long as he was tall—lay sheathed in its scabbard, and as he walked, the length of the sword trailed behind.

"He was our prince, our captain. We called him Bailu, for he danced about his foes like the agile egret. He rallied us at the waterfall, for only his best warriors could defend the path against the enemy. They would hold fast would we brought the wrath of the river and mountains from relative safety above."

On the horizon, shadows of the coming army gathered. Scouts on horseback rode along the river and turned back, reporting to their forces. Their infantry led the charge, and mounted bowmen slung arrows overhead, a protective rain of death. Sindoor led Ranma up the path, to the top of the waterfall, where the bulk of the Sorcerer Guard meditated. They opened crevices in the ground, gaping chasms that swallowed horse and rider, and the fissures sealed themselves, trapping the enemy below. The river, a serpent in shape and form, reared back and swept the footmen away. They tumbled like chess pieces on a broken board. Prince Bailu and his men mopped up the scattered remnants. A single swing of his sword shattered their armor, splintered their bows, and broke their bones without scratch or scrape on the skin.

"We thought ourselves invincible," said Sindoor. "That's why, even when the tide of battle turned, we thought surely we'd win."

Water blasted the front line; the river barreled into the Sorcerers at the base of the waterfall. Downstream, their enemies pounded the water with staff and fist. They shaped the water in the forms of great sea beasts: the mako, the hammerhead, the great white.

"They turned the elements against us. With their vast numbers, it was all the distraction they needed to push the waterfall path, to engage us where a rock slide or windstorm would endanger both sides. The Prince was the best of us. He defended every man valiantly, but he wasn't perfect. Even he could err."

Bailu swung his greatsword overhead; he plowed it into the ground! The shockwaves cut across the enemy flank, razing them to the earth, but this cone of death knew not friend from foe. Among the pink and red armors of the enemy, a handful of black tunics fell, silenced, lifeless.

"The Prince dropped his sword, and it lay across the bodies of our fallen. The rest of the Guard battled on—we shattered the path up the cliffside, so none would breach the upper quarter—but Prince Bailu stood still. None of the enemy would touch him, and nothing, not the shouts of his lieutenants, not the death cries of his army, would rouse him. Nothing so much as moved the Prince's soul until the enemy routed every last Sorcerer below. Everyone but him. They held him at knife-point. I don't know what they said, but something must have stirred him. Anger, perhaps, that he'd failed his men and led them to death. Sorrow, that he'd killed some of them by his own hand. I can't say what possessed him at that moment, surrounded by the enemy that showed no quarter or mercy, but I know something did. Something powerful. Something so terrible this valley has never seen shade of it since."

A beam of light struck from above! The impact rippled across the lower valley; it kicked up dust and dirt and debris. The great army that had taken the river vanished, and in their place, piles of ash wafted along the riverbank. The trees, too, crumbled into soot, and the songs of birds broke not the silence.

Ranma trembled. A cold sweat broke out on his brow. _The birds don't sing because there aren't any. They're all gone._

The leveled lower valley shimmered and faded, giving way to the unsteady light of the torches and the cold stone walls of Sindoor's court. "Neither side won that war," she said. "That day, the Prince obliterated the enemy army. We could've struck back, decimated their village, but the Prince would have none of it. We'd done enough damage to ourselves, he said. Such power he wielded was too great. No Sorcerer should wield it again. At dawn of the following day, the Prince drowned himself in the sacred spring. After his mother passed, I came to rule the village. No one would make their home in the lower village again, so I had the palace built here, where the Prince fought his last battle. We moved the great library, and in its scrolls I discovered the means to save our people, to protect them from their darkest urges—urges that, with our powers, can mean catastrophe on an epic scale."

"The Sieve," said Ranma.

"The Sieve of Ki. It drains us of the toxic energies that might otherwise poison our arts. It keeps us safe and sane. Without it, a Sorcerer of sufficient power could obliterate the village with a thought." Sindoor looked to the double doors. "Every moment that passes, any one of my people could herald our end."

"What does that have to do with me? Or Saffron?"

"The Sieve has failed. You know this. I knew it when I felt the great disturbance in the ripples, the eddies of ki that flow through this place."

"You're not my father, if that's what you're saying."

Sindoor stared.

"Never mind. I guess you're saying this disturbance shorted out your Sieve?"

"A disturbance not from this village."

"How exactly do you know that?"

"It would take a being of great power to sate the Sieve from outside the village. So you'll forgive me if, when mention Saffron comes to me, I assume the culprit is him?"

"So what're you going to do, go after him?"

"I know the legends well. Captain Wuya found you at the spring ground, whose waters Saffron can use for his transformation. That's where you met him, isn't it? He _is_ who we seek?"

Ranma squirmed. If they wanted to go after the Saffron he fought, they could go right ahead for all he cared, but that Saffron didn't exist anymore. These Sorcerers, if they invaded Mount Phoenix, would find only a baby, a hatchling from an egg. Maybe there was nothing he could do to stop that, but any battle between these Sorcerers and the Phoenix wasn't going to be feathers and pillow fights. Prince Bailu might've been the best of them all, but even a fraction of that power would wipe out a good chunk of the mountain. An encounter between the tribes would be bloody and serve no purpose—no purpose because Ranma killed Saffron, because it was necessary, because he had to.

Because he wanted to. Sindoor might've failed to understand Bailu—why, outnumbered and outmatched, he would find the pinnacle of his power and slay everyone who'd killed his men, but Ranma knew that feeling. He knew it in every fiber of muscle, every bundle of nerves. He knew it when he held the hot, charred doll in his hands, when her eyelids drooped dangerously low. Ranma had hope where Bailu didn't, but that didn't make them different. Either way, you want to destroy everything that opposes you and make them feel it, make them regret it, for days to come.

Ranma rubbed his arms, shivering. "Sorry," he said. "Can't help you. How am I to know if Saffron broke your Sieve? All I did was meet a kid in a bath house. I tied him up, took him back to his people, and we parted ways. That's all."

Sidoor's gaze bored into him, as if to make both mind and body hollow.

"Can I go now?"

"Perhaps," said Sindoor, "if you'd permit me a moment?"

Ranma nodded.

The locks to the rear doors undid themselves, and Sindoor stepped out, into the hallway, where the officers of the court presented scrolls to the Lady's Advisor, begging his approval.

"Kohl."

He rolled up a parchment and straightened his tunic. "My lady?"

"Our guest still refuses to reveal the truth to me," said Sindoor.

"She's treacherous, deceitful. We need her no longer; she's given us Saffron."

"We must be certain before we act, lest we rush headlong into open war. The Phoenix will not abide us depriving them of their king. They will resist."

"What can they do to us? We have magic. They have only wings and claws."

"A sharpened claw can slit a dozen throats. Our magic protects us; it does not make us invincible. Always remember that."

Kohl chafed at this lecture, but he dared not cross his leader. "What are your orders, then, my lady?"

"There is much we must discover before we chase Saffron." Sindoor opened the metal slab a hair, watching Ranma through the crack. "This girl knows little. The answers we seek lie at the top of the spire."

Kohl grimaced. "With respect, Tilaka has done much for us."

"But he's yet to fulfill his last duty." Sindoor nodded toward the doorway. "He pointed to her; this girl may bring order to the chaos in his mind."

"If that is your wish, my lady."

"It is."

Kohl bowed slightly. He pushed the metal door away, and behind him, the officers of the court trailed inside.

"What's going on?" asked Ranma. "What are you doing?"

"Come," said Kohl, yanking Ranma by the wrist. "You must meet the Sieve."

#

In the heart of the spire, Kohl led Ranma up a helical stair, a cramped space between the central pole and an interior wall. In this windowless passage, torches lit the way up the tower and framed hollow doorways to the upper floors.

"Protecting the village requires sacrifice," said Kohl. "For those in the Guard, that means a lifetime of dedication, constant training. It means, sometimes, you must give up who you are."

The mid levels of the tower housed the library. The musk of stale parchment hung in the air, and shelves of scrolls filled every floor, with narrow aisles between.

"The channelers who maintain the Maze stay here. Day and night they project our best defense, and in return, we provide their needs. Even so, it's still … not enough."

Above the library, the chambers of the tower sheltered the channelers. Kneeling on woven mats, they meditated, linking their hands, humming to themselves. Their music, a deep, resonant chord, filled the stairwell like the an opera at a concert hall. Ranma looked upon the channelers and wondered where their minds were—here, in the tower; out there, among the forest; or simply lost in their music, the order that shaped the mind-maze.

Perhaps, instead, they were nowhere at all.

_These people don't make any sense,_ thought Ranma. _If they're so preoccupied with staying secret, why leave the village at all? Why care about someone who breaks their Sieve? Why not just make another one? _

Warm, humid air flooded the stairwell. On a high floor in the tower, a fountain gushed and flowed. A steamy fog wafted through the doorway; it clung to the ceiling.

"Hot water," said Ranma. "Hey, you mind a detour for a second?"

Kohl dragged him along. "Somewhere on every floor there is a fountain. The sound reinforces the channelers' meditations. It's not for pleasure or sport."

Ranma looked over his shoulder, catching a last glimpse droplets that splashed from the basin.

_Damn these people._ He pulled back on his wrist, on the arm that yanked him up the tower. _If I could get away from this place, I'd stand to break this guy's arm._ Not that there was any getting away without taking down that Maze.

The pair passed another floor of channelers—two dozen kids who slept sitting up.

_Take them all out. Nothing fancy, nothing too drastic. If they've been sitting there for who knows how long, they won't be fighters. The guards who come to stop me will be more trouble._ He sighed. _Yeah, let's slap some defenseless kids around a bit._ Messy business, perhaps, but they were the ones holding him. If helpless "channelers" held up the Maze that kept him here, what other choice did he have?

_Would I even get out of this tower? _

"Oof." Ranma bumped into Kohl, falling against the center pole. "What's up?"

Kohl bowed his head, bracing himself on the doorway. "We've reached the top of the tower."

"Where this Sieve of yours is?"

"No one has made a greater sacrifice."

" 'No one'?"

"Come," said Kohl, yanking Ranma along. "See who your stubbornness punishes." Kohl led him to a door, one flanked by two guards, but their staves crossed in the doorway, blocking the path.

"Why do you come, Advisor?" From the shadows of torchlight, a dark-skinned figure emerged. "You know you cannot be here. And now you bring the outsider to the Sieve?"

"Lieutenant Xiu." Kohl stiffened. "You've ended exercises early, I see. Again."

"I have many duties: training the Guard, protecting the Sieve. I do what the captain cannot."

"She's trained you well."

"The captain? She comes and goes at her leisure. I train the Guard. She does nothing."

"And you learn nothing."

"Oh, you wish to prove something? You think yourself worthy of the Guard?"

Kohl growled. He motioned to the door. "How is he?"

"In session," said Xiu. "And closed to visitors."

"The Lady's instructed me to show him the outsider."

"For what purpose?"

"That is the Lady's concern," said Kohl, "not yours."

"The Sieve's protection is my concern."

"But you cannot disobey the Lady."

Xiu glanced away. "No." He nodded to guards, who uncrossed their staves. "You don't speak to the Sieve, understand?"

Kohl grumbled, pushing past Xiu and his men. He yanked Ranma into darkness, a cold, drafty room. Two dim squares of light penetrated the black, but that was all.

"What's this?" asked Ranma.

"Look," said Kohl.

"What?"

Kohl manhandled Ranma's head, directing his gaze. "Look."

The windows showed a larger room, in which three people sat by a recessed, sunken fire. They faced away from the windows. A boy in the middle held hands with the two cloaked figures. Soft, hushed voices whispered in rhythm, a meditation chant. Smoke from the fire diffused through the windows, carrying a strange, chemical smell. Bitter, like burning leaves, yet sweet, too.

"His name is Tilaka," said Kohl, his voice low. "He's been the Sieve for several years now."

"He—he _is_ the Sieve? How?"

"It started as a discipline, an order of Sorcerers who thought that our dependence on ki made us weak, that it put us at the mercy of nature and not in control of it. Those of us who feel the ripples strongly can't help but let them move us, at least a little. The Sieve is the antithesis of that. The Sieve feels the waves of ki from others and is unmoved by them. He bonds with all of us, and whenever we drift from serenity, he bears the burden instead. When Tilaka came to us to be the next Sieve, he was young, too young. I've watched him grow up in this room, isolated, alone, for the better part of his life."

Ranma pointed below. "Doesn't look very alone to me."

"They're conditioning him to be Sieve again. They will crush even the slightest impulse within him if they can. It's the only way to help him reclaim that state, that perfection, that immovable void. It's not easy, not for anyone. Those who help the Sieve recenter must be ruthless, and Tilaka…" Kohl shook his head. "Listen."

The boy's shallow breaths echoed in the stone chamber. He cried out, a wordless groan, more like the death wail of an animal than anything human. Like a wounded deer in the woods, left on its side, kicking at leaves and grass with bent, broken legs, as night descends, as wolves circle, howling, licking their chops.

He sobbed. He shuddered. He pulled away, but his assistants gripped his hands and forced him down. They leaned him over the fire, and he coughed on smoke and tears.

Ranma shivered. "How long have they been doing this?"

"Since Tilaka failed us," said Kohl. "Some days now."

"And you just sit here and watch?"

Kohl glared. "I take no pride in this. It is necessary, not kind." He balled his hand to a fist and pressed it on the wall. "Not just."

"That's a wimpy way to put it if I ever heard."

"You wish to stop this? Tell us how you know Saffron. Tell us everything, so we can find how he stirred Tilaka!"

"I don't see why you keep looking at me for answers," said Ranma. "It's not like I would know."

"The Lady believes we must know more before we act."

Ranma frowned. "What do _you_ believe, then?"

Kohl stared through the window.

"You've already made up your mind, haven't you," said Ranma. "You think this is a waste of time."

"That…" Kohl pointed below, at the boy who trembled before his tormentors. "That is a waste of time. It's a desperate attempt to make him into something he shouldn't be. I don't know how your people live, I don't know what you're hiding, but if you go down there, if you talk to him and still refuse to speak the truth, then I must consider the kindness you showed the captain empty."

"I haven't been well repaid for that, you know."

"Do something for Tilaka here, and you'll never see us again. You won't be able to find us, even if you tried. Is that payment enough?"

"What do you want me to say?"

"Talk to him. Show him comfort. He sees into the soul; he knows things before you say them. However you know of Saffron, think to that, and Tilaka will do the rest." Kohl looked to Xiu, and the lieutenant called to Tilaka's assistants in their native tongue. The two cloaked figures waited for their Sieve to settle and left through an exit on the lower level. Kohl lit a torch and handed it to Ranma. "There's a staircase behind that door," he said.

"You're not coming?" asked Ranma.

"I am forbidden from seeing him. You must go in my stead."

"Why?"

"I don't know Saffron."

"That's not what I asked."

Kohl folded his arms, clearing his throat.

_Right, don't push it._ Torch in hand, Ranma undid the latch to the door and eased it shut behind him. At the lower level, Xiu crept inside, beckoning the hooded figures to leave with him. Obedient, they released Tilaka's hands, and the boy sagged on the floor. Xiu latched the door behind them, and the scraping of metal against metal echoed through the tower, but for din or quiet, Tilaka didn't stir.

_All right, so. What am I doing here? _ Ranma paced around Tilaka and sat before him, across the recessed fire pit. _How is this supposed to get me out of here? _ He eyed Kohl's shadow in the window. _Show him kindness. That's easy enough. One good deed got me here; another can get me out? _ Ranma shook his head. _These people don't make any sense. Sieves and magic mists and all. What the hell. I don't have anything to do with this. I'm just a guy._

He tugged on his shirt, and the cloth went taut over his breasts.

_Okay, not the best example._

All that said, Kohl did make him an offer, one that Ranma could find no fault in. If he really couldn't come back to haunt them later, why not let him go once he helped them out? If they were nice people, anyway. If they were benevolent hippies who wanted only peace and goodwill on earth. If, instead, they were really bloodthirsty magicians bent on human sacrifice, well, why _should_ they let him go? That was the central question. Were these people human—worth relating to, worth dealing with—or not?

_Everybody cares about something, though. That guy Kohl—he's not sticking around for me. He doesn't like what they've done to this Tilaka, whatever that is, even if he's too much of a coward to stop it._

That was a far cry from earning Ranma's trust, though. No, the army that trained on the palace grounds was more persuasive than Kohl. The channelers who built the Maze around the village—they forced Ranma's cooperation, but if this deal didn't pan out, they shouldn't think for one minute Ranma wouldn't march down there and show them a piece of his mind. It'd be stupid, and he'd probably get his head bashed against a wall for his trouble, but at least it'd feel good.

It'd feel better than how he felt at that moment, sitting before Tilaka. Even in the firelight, something about the boy's features cloaked him in shadow. Every flicker, every ember's light, disappeared when they touched him. The space he occupied was empty, devoid of life. Who could say what else they'd done to this kid, but he was the key, wasn't he? Everything Sindoor and Kohl and the captain, Wuya—everything they'd done had to do with this Tilaka. None of them leveled with Ranma, but from this strange, damaged boy, could he stitch together some patchwork truth? Find a thread of information that would buy his freedom from these Sorcerers?

_Let's find out._

"Hey," said Ranma, tapping him. "Hey, Tilaka."

The boy met his gaze, eyes wide, peering from the darkness.

"Um, pleased to meet you?"

He shot up. He yelled, he shouted, he clawed at the walls of his prison!

"Hey, hey, settle down!" Ranma scrambled to his feet. "I don't speak that, you know!" He squared the boy's shoulders and held him in place. "Settle down, okay?"

Tilaka's eyed danced, searching the room. He breathed in choppy, short gasps. "You—you speak Japanese?"

"Yeah, Japanese. Heard your people had another guest like me one time."

The boy's anxiety faded. He cracked a small smile. "He was a strange man. He thought he was in France when we found him."

"Heh. Sounds kind of like a guy I know."

Tilaka nodded. Lowering himself to the floor, he sat by the fire again, calming himself.

"You're not going to ask who I am?"

"I know who you are."

"Well, yeah, I guess the language made that obvious."

"No. I knew you were here when the cap—" He shuddered. "When you were brought to the village. I could feel you."

"Hey, watch what you say, buddy."

Tilaka frowned. "I mean I felt your ripples."

"Ripples?"

"You don't feel them? They're very strong from you. Not like the trader—he was weak, untrained. You're a warrior; I can tell."

"Funny, everybody's been saying I'm no stronger than a housefly."

"They don't recognize the way you use your ki." He laughed. "I always liked how similar the words were, in our language and yours. It doesn't surprise me; the Guard trains day and night against each other. They don't know how the world feels outside."

"But you do because you were the Sieve."

"Not 'were.' I am the Sieve." He shifted his position, finding comfort as he knelt by the fire. "The Sieve listens to the people. She feels the ripples of ki that come from every living thing in the village. She moderates them. She damps them, so they cannot sway people. That's why she's needed."

_Geez, they've brainwashed him or something. Nobody could've actually wanted this._ "Why don't you just get someone else to do it?"

Tilaka stared into the fire.

"What, are you sleeping again?"

He shook his head. "Forgive me. I was remembering when I was chosen to become the Sieve."

"How's that?"

The boy cringed.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, no." Tilaka sat up, shivering, warming his hands. "Perhaps I should." He cleared his throat, and the voice that came out was stronger for it. It penetrated the darkness where his old voice had faded.

"It was my twelfth summer. The Lady picked us. She said she knew our potential, that we would one day lead the tribe as officers of the Guard. She trained us herself. She took us to the top of the waterfall and unearthed the rocks and trees from the ground. She showed us how to feel the world around us, to grasp it with our minds. She cultivated our powers. She made us the defenders of the people, and we were proud to do it.

"But she warned us, too. She cautioned us not to bond too tightly to our comrades. She said trust was necessary among us, but we should avoid building relations that would only be painful if severed, if lost in battle. Young as we were, we wanted to obey the Lady, but we didn't know any better, either. Some people, like Xiu, who keeps me here, I never got along with, but…"

"You met someone?"

Tilaka smiled. "I never knew her true name. We take names to represent our other selves in battle. In your language, you'd call her the Crow."

"And you weren't supposed to make friends."

"No, but I couldn't help myself. She defended me from Xiu when he stole my supper. She sparred with me when I fell behind in workout. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't have passed the trials to be a Guardsman. She helped me; she didn't have to." He took to his feet, bracing himself on the stone wall. "I wanted to thank her. I started telling her things about my other life, even though it was forbidden. How I milled grain for my two little sisters, how I worried that, without me, they might starve in the winter. I told her my true name, Tilaka." He blushed. "I showed her my body."

Ranma gawked. "Um, come again?"

"We showed each other our bodies. We showed each other everything."

"But you were twelve!"

Tilaka cocked his head, puzzled.

"You know what? Never mind. Just move on from the showing bodies thing, okay?"

"But I tempted her."

"Oh gods, stop!"

"That was my offense."

Ranma blinked. "Your 'offense'?"

"That's what woke the Sieve," said Tilaka. "What Crow and I shared that night, by the sacred spring. What we did was forbidden, but I didn't care. I tempted her, and the depth of that transgression roused the Sieve from slumber. I was the one at fault. That's why I had to take over. They couldn't patch the last Sieve."

"So you took his place instead?"

Tilaka nodded. "The humiliation, the shame of it—she killed herself. I murdered her, my friend, for what I couldn't bear not to have. That is my sin, and that's why I bear this duty, day after day. I won't complain when the priests come to patch my memory. It's my fault. My perversion woke the Sieve before me."

"But that doesn't make sense. Just because you broke it doesn't mean you have to do it."

"To wake the Sieve before proves you are more powerful than her," said Tilaka. "That is our tradition. The Sieve acts until someone makes her fail. Then, that person who woke the her will be a stronger Sieve until another sates her in turn. Each must be stronger than the one who came before, so each will last longer, be a more perfect Sieve to fill the village's needs."

"So you guys came to Jusenkyō…"

"To find the one who woke me, the one who will replace me."

Ranma sat back, his pulse quickening. _And now they're asking about Saffron. They want him to be the next Sieve, but I killed him. He's dead. He can't possibly…_ Ranma shook off the thought. "But that doesn't have anything to do with me. I was just in the neighborhood."

"No, you're exactly who we sought."

"Eh?"

"That's who I told them to look for," said Tilaka. "Someone who changes form. Their ki is freer, more powerful. I felt that, in the ripples, when I woke from my slumber."

"But there are lots of people cursed. Why me? Why Jusenkyō?"

"Come," said Tilaka. "Let me show you." A hand on the wall, he stumbled toward a curtained window. "A week ago, I slept. I felt the eddies of ki that the village makes. Most of the time, I only awaken when it's dark, when there are fewer souls for me to carry. That time, though, it was daylight." He pulled open the curtain, revealing his pallid, weary face. A short bowl of hair topped his head, and large, brown eyes looked out on the day. "I was here," he said. "I slept. Most of the time, I feel only the village, but this was different. From the mountain to the east, I felt something. I felt fire."

Outside, the tower cast its afternoon shadow over the window and the palace grounds. East, sure enough. Definitely east.

"From the big mountain?" said Ranma. "The one right next to us?"

"No, further." He pointed to a small peak that poked over the trees. "There, on the horizon. This disturbance—it pulled to me. It woke me. I stood at this window, and with my eyes, I saw what my mind already felt. I saw the fire. I saw the flames engulf the mountainside. The smoke colored the sky there in dark, red clouds."

_That's Jusendō mountain. That's Saffron. He felt me battling Saffron? _

"But then the fires went out. The fire went out, and all that energy swept away from me, like when the floods recede in the spring. I tried to sleep again, to meditate, to quiet the energies I felt there, but one last wave came to me, something profound, intense. I couldn't suppress it! I couldn't make it die and ebb away! It was…" Tilaka shuddered. Bracing himself on the windowsill, he wiped a tear from his eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't have the words. Not even in our language; I don't have the words."

Ranma gulped. "That's what broke you?"

"The last pulse of energy," said Tilaka. "The last wave that came to me from that place. The Lady said it was a spring ground."

"And it had to have come from someone powerful?"

"Yes. It felt … like the animals do, after their winter slumber. When the fires went out, I thought everything had died, but I know something must've survived. That's what I felt, and it was beautiful."

_Something did live, Tilaka. It was Saffron. I killed him; I put the fires out, but he came back. He came back, but he can't be your Sieve because I killed him. And that's what your people want to know. Oh gods…_

"Strange. I sense some of those energies in you now."

"Me? What are you talking about?"

"Don't you feel them?"

"Um, no?"

Tilaka left the curtain, letting the soft daylight from the valley shine in. "Being Sieve means you deaden the ripples that move us," he said, sitting by the fire once more. "But that's not your only power. You can add to them, make them bigger. It's not something I usually do. Anyone else, anyone in the tribe, would understand why."

Ranma tuned out Tilaka's monologue. He let his eyes wander, considering the horror, the dire peril of his situation. _Saffron won't be ready to mature. It'll be what—five, maybe ten years before he can transform again? These guys won't wait that long. They want their Sieve now. They want me to tell them. Geez, what can I tell them? _

But strangely, instead of panic and dread taking hold of him, warmth and bliss crept over Ranma's beating heart. His mind drifted to memories of simpler moments, to times not of mere complacency but of joy and happiness. When, before his battle with Kumon Ryu, Akane took him by the hand and urged him to fight his best. When he leapt from the maw of the eight-headed serpent, she promised they'd go home together. Though he couldn't confess to her on the way back, he had to admit those feelings, at least to himself, that he liked when she was around, that he enjoyed having her near.

"It's interesting when we have a visitor," said Tilaka. "They know these energies so much better than we do. It's a unique challenge, but I don't regret it. I don't regret it at all."

Regret. On the path home from Ryūgenzawa, he regretted not telling her how he felt, but it was inevitable. Making her cry was inevitable. Playing with her heart over what, some stupid battle suit? He couldn't help it. It wasn't that her soul was fragile; it was that he understood, without realizing, exactly what would pierce it, what would shatter it like window glass. Gods only knew how many times he insulted her body—her bust, her figure—when he should cherish it instead. The warmth of her next to him was a fruit he hardly deserved. It'd be so easy if she said she liked someone else. Then he wouldn't need to tease her. He could let go, but as it was, he held on. Even when she refused him, sent him away to this place, he held on…

_Why? _

He rubbed his sleeve over his eyes; this was no time for such sadness, no place to mourn his mistakes! _Geez,_ he thought, _I'm almost crying, and for what? Why do I feel this way? _

"Do you understand now?" Tilaka shook, tears streaming down his face. "Or do you need more?"

Ranma's skin tingled. His hairs stood on end. "You're doing this," he said. "How? Why?"

"Sometimes, I just want to know these energies better," said Tilaka. "What I felt that day, it touched me. It woke me when I've been Sieve for so long. Maybe that's why I can't be Sieve anymore—not because I can't be, but because I don't _want_ to be. I gave in to temptation, then and now." He met Ranma's gaze. "I feel what you feel, and I want more."

Anger and hatred pumped through his veins. Ranma balled his fists. He stomped about the fire. This kid was violating him; there was no other way about it, yet Ranma felt rage only toward himself. Disgust for his cruelties to Akane. Loathing for not being the man she wanted him to be. He let her down. He let her die to Saffron. It was only luck that she survived; he had nothing to do with saving her! Nothing!

He yanked Tilaka to his feet. "Stop it, damn you! I didn't ask for this!"

The boy thrashed in his grip, delirious. Like an addict on a rush, his face contorted with pleasure and pain.

"Dammit, is this what it's all about? You want to make me _angry_?"

The boy's eyes focused, a wicked grin on his face.

"Well, kid," said Ranma, shaking, "you got it."

BAM! Ranma clocked Tilaka, decking him to the floor. The boy collapsed, falling like a puppet with its strings cut, and Ranma, for his part, stood still, panting. Adrenaline and mixed emotions gave way to cold sweat and a level head.

"Oh man." He rolled Tilaka over, pressing his his fingers to the boy's neck. "What have I done?"

BANG! The iron door yanked against its hinges. "Get away from him!"

CRACK! A wooden staff smacked Ranma across the face, knocking him across the room. Guards rushed into the chambers, and in the doorway, Kohl seethed. "Lieutenant! Take this _betrayer_ away."

"To assault the Sieve is blasphemy!" said Xiu. "You cannot let her go unpunished!"

"The captain will exact retribution for this crime," said Kohl, tossing the staff aside. "I'll see to it myself."

* * *

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	10. The Village III: Ritual at the Spring

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

* * *

**Ritual at the Spring**

_Chapter Two, Act Three_

It is said, in some circles, that the only the body feels pain and only the mind suffers. To an extent this is true: a pain receptor detects heat or pressure and responds to inflammation in the surrounding tissue. The body knows when a cut breaks the skin. That's not to say a person can ignore these sensations as a matter of choice. No force of will can deaden the thrust of a staff as it jabs between the third and fourth ribs. A kick to the kneecap bends the joint in sickly, unnatural ways, and no meditation erases that pain. Strange magic floats the body in mid-air, like an astronaut in free-fall, and a dizzying punch spins it like a children's top. The mind can't control what it feels, but when a sensation is constant and overwhelming, it may surrender instead, divorcing itself from the body. It sees an overhead whack to the shoulder from afar, as if these tortures and indignities happen to an actor on a television screen. They're distant. They don't really happen at all. Eventually, the mind tires of this channel.

The screen flickers. It goes black.

#

Like the night.

To the light of a candle, Ranma rolled onto his back.

And screamed. He screamed through clenched teeth. His muscles tensed, sore with the burn of lactic acid. He panted, but each breath stabbed him, like a dagger to the heart.

"Girls. No tolerance for pain, none at all."

He planted a hand in the dirt and pulled his torso forward, sitting upright, this time with only a slight, guttural growl. With support from the straw walls, he leaned back, resting. Even in the candlelight, he knew this place. He woke here in the morning, and they dragged him back in the afternoon. They prodded him upriver with their staves, and the captain waited by the doorway. She was tense. Her staff trembled in her grip, as if she'd snap it in two. Ranma steeled himself then. No matter what she did or asked, he'd keep the secret of Saffron's death from them. It was the only thing keeping him alive.

Alive, but not undamaged. A bowl of water shimmered in the darkness, reflecting the candle's light. He pulled it along the ground and sipped, but as he lowered it down, he spied himself, his own image, the image of a girl. Bruises marred his cheek and neck. His eyelid swelled, shutting what dim, narrow vision of the world he had in the night.

"Come on!" he'd taunted the captain. "You want to ask a question or hit me again?"

She socked him anyway. That's how he earned his black eye. Surely it was strange—that they'd go to all the trouble to beat the stuffing from him and not ask a single question, not say a word about Saffron or what Ranma'd done to Tilaka. Ranma's aura swelled. He shot bolts of ki at his torturer, but the Sorcerer reflected them, and sparse embers burned through his shirt. All afternoon, the stoic Captain Wuya mauled Ranma and said not a word.

He laid the water bowl down. Maybe that was the point. The bowl, the candle—they were just the first offerings of kindness. Someone meant them to clash against this brutality. When would they come? Later that night? Tomorrow morning? This phantom person would try to make friends with him, earn his confidence. They'd speak of rogue rainstorms and the blooming of daffodils, inconsequential things. Something to build his trust until he confessed the truth about cats and dogs and Saffron. Then this friend of his would call in the Guard, and they'd drown in him the river at night. Someone who'd attacked the last Sieve and killed the next deserved only death, nothing less. Make no mistake: he sympathized with Tilaka, damaged and perverse as he was; he admired Sindoor, for her desire to protect her people should be commended; he respected even the captain, for what she didn't say spoke of passion and drive and duty.

That didn't make them his friends. It didn't change that he came alone, with only his wits and strength to rely on. Even a friendly rival like Ryōga or Mousse, treacherous though they could be at times, could be a boon. Someone to bounce ideas off of, to hatch a plan and execute it. They might also muck it up royally, but it'd be better than sitting around, massaging his wounds. Even Akane, though he'd never wish her within a hundred miles of this place, would be a small comfort to him. Stubborn as she was, she wouldn't give up hope.

He sighed. She was the reason he ran into these people. Not even his manhood belonged to him anymore—he wanted that as much to please her as anything else. Were it not for her, he'd have reclaimed it long ago, right? He'd have trained, improving his skills. He'd be better without his fiancées' distractions, for they cost him the edge he needed to beat the captain and escape this place.

He scoffed. It was absurd to think this way—he couldn't take back his time with Akane. Nay, he wouldn't, even if he could, but the crux of the problem remained: he had it in him to be a warrior. He knew that tradition all his life. He hoped he could be a husband, too, but it was one or the other, not both, not while a splash of cold water made him any less of a man. At that moment, he was a girl, with only the warmth and light of a candle to keep her company.

But not just one. A precession of candles stepped through the night. Hooded figures passed by his hut on a slow march. With both hands, each villager carried a clay bowl, filled with water, on which a wax candle floated, flickering, dancing in the night.

_Feh._ Ranma crossed his arms. _I don't care anything about what these people do at night. Their village, their business, not my problem._ He settled back, easing his aching joints. _Come tomorrow, I'll be as good as new. I heal fast._

Unless Wuya and her men visited again before morning.

_Akane would say I'm stupid to go out there, beat up like I am._

True, she'd say that exactly, and in no uncertain terms, but what was always more interesting than jibes and insults was what she didn't say, what she wouldn't say, what he hoped she'd say if, by some curious twist of fate, she knew what pains plauged himand what dirt he lay in. If ever there were a time for those words, she'd find the courage now, wouldn't she?

"I need you back, Ranma," she'd say. "Please don't wait another minute to come back to me."

Ranma rose. He wiggled his fingers, rolled his neck around. The vertebrae of his spine made a soft popping sound. "Oh yeah?" he said to darkness. "Well, to hell with you, Akane. You're always making me do stupid things."

He blew out his only candle and disappeared into the night.

#

Akane would want him to be aggressive. If some ceremony distracted the villagers for an evening, Ranma shouldn't pass up the chance to take advantage. From upriver, the villagers filed in, following the rocky paths of the western bank. As the precession passed, more villagers trickled from their homes. The too followed the river's current until they met a bridge. There, they joined their comrades and marched as one line, one unit, one people.

Sticking to the shadows, Ranma followed from the opposite shore. Clouds scattered the light of the waning moon, and to ward off detection, Ranma carried neither torch nor candle with him. He treaded alone, in the dark, wondering if nearby snails might reach their destination before he did.

The precession marched on. A cold, northerly wind chilled the valley, ruffling their robes and hoods. The rapids sprayed mist in Ranma's face.

_They're heading to the palace? _

The line of lights bent down the cliffside path—a hazardous journey at night, yet the villagers proceeded in full stride, one step at a time, rhythmic and steady like the waterfall. Over the cliff, the precession wound about the outer palace wall. Torches and oil lamps lit the villagers and the guards at their posts, protecting the palace gates.

_Right. They wouldn't leave their Sieve or the channelers unprotected._

But something emerged from the central spire to join the precession. From the tower's base, four lights surrounded a fifth, a diamond formation. The group paced the empty palace grounds and departed through the main gate. They took a place in the main line, an odd bulge in an otherwise single column.

_That's Sindoor. She's taken some of her guards with her. Palace has to be pretty light now. Not a lot of people. Channelers in the middle, Tilaka at the top. Maybe I could go in there._

And do what? Slap every Sorcerer inside silly? Even a thinly staffed tower could house a hundred warriors, and they'd protect Tilaka and the channelers down to the last man. That kind of fight he wouldn't win.

Perhaps the better alternative was not to fight at all. He didn't need to defeat an army. That was an obstacle, not the goal. The channelers were the goal—they held up the maze around the village. If he could distract them, disrupt their cozy meditations…

_But how? _

Torches, around the palace walls. Candles in a line, an elaborate Christmas decoration.

He could set it on fire. The grassy training grounds would burn. The tower wouldn't go to ash, but anything flammable would smoke out the occupants, floor by floor. The Sorcerers would scatter like ants from a dying colony. Some of them would die. By smoke or flame, some of them would never get out alive.

_No,_ thought Ranma. _It hasn't come to that yet._

Instead, he followed the precession down the cliffside, descending with trepidation where the Sorcerers had walked easily and freely. He flailed for handholds and skidded along the path, wearing his shoes on the rocky soil. Ahead, the candles gathered in a clearing, a small gap in the immature thicket. The villagers formed rings around an open space, with Sindoor and her guards positioned at an edge. Even the palace guard couldn't help follow the ceremony, at least with their eyes.

Ranma slinked about the palace grounds, quieting his mind. No matter what these Sorcerers thought they felt—through energy, through "ki"—they wouldn't notice him. Even in broad daylight, their eyes would slip off him. In darkness, with clouds blocking the moonlight, Ranma's skill in thievery would conceal him perfectly. Perhaps fire was a poor choice to panic the tower's inhabitants, but surely there were other ways.

Ranma leapt atop the outermost ring. That part was easy. With the guards posted only at the gates, he had clear access from ring to ring, straight to Sindoor's chambers. If he could get inside, he could use stealth as his weapon. Sneaking around unnoticed, he'd swipe a poisoned dagger from one of the guards and put them to sleep with it.

He sighed. Like he was really going to nick a dozen people with the same dagger. The paralytic on the blade would weaken with every use.

_Besides, who cuts someone with a poisoned knife? Get a dart or something. A cut just bleeds out most of the poison anyway._

He shook his head. There had to be something he missed, some way to break the maze and give him a chance in the wilderness. Were it daytime, he'd catch sight of Jusendō. He knew his way back, to the cure, and from there, back home. If he just had some leverage, some tactic to use…

In the distance, the precession of candles halted. Though the villagers stood still, the lights shimmered and wavered. More than candles would by themselves.

_Water._

The captain, Wuya, had soap on her hands. Tilaka said it, right to his face: "Someone who changes form. Their ki is freer, more powerful."

_How would he know that unless… _

Ranma jumped off the outer ring. Deadening his aura, he tiptoed over rock and bridge to the pond, to the thousand candles that lit the ceremony. Ranma crept to the tree line and hid amongst the saplings. In her native tongue, Sindoor addressed the villagers. The words were unintelligible to Ranma—he guessed them a sermon or rite of some kind. Their purpose mattered not. The villagers responded to their leader in unison, as good adherents would.

_Their magic is their religion,_ thought Ranma. _This ain't a pond; it's a spring. It's exactly what Tilaka said. Sindoor picks people for the Guard. When they're through, when they've proven themselves worthy, they must come here. To be in the Guard, you have to accept a curse, the curse of protecting the people._

A sound enough theory, but theories require proof. If he were right, Ranma expected some of the young men and women of the tribe to line up at water's edge. Maybe they would extinguish their candles, representing how they'd given something of themselves to serve. It wouldn't be just the Guard, either. If accepting a curse made their magic more powerful, wouldn't the channelers in the tower need it, too?

A light shined from the spring. The water glowed a warm blueish-green. The crowd murmured in awe, and a new precession of candles entered at Sindoor's side.

_Here they are. The people come to accept the curse._

In the left hand, each cradled bowl and candle, like the others. In the right, a woven basket, with a large, bowed handle and wide basin. Cloth covered whatever lay inside. One by one, the newcomers took position around the water's edge, crowding out the spectators. They set their candles aside, and each girl pulled back her hood.

_Women,_ he realized. _They're all … women._

The maidens dangled their baskets over the surface. They lowered straw and cloth, and the spring water seeped into into the meshwork. After a few moments, they fished the baskets from the water. Opening the cloths, they checked the bundles within, dabbing the water away.

Ranma's stomach knotted, but he made no move to interfere. Sindoor proclaimed the success of the ceremony, victorious and triumphant to her subjects, but Ranma blocked out her voice, her foreign words. To the chants of the crowd, of man, woman, and child, the group of maidens departed, leading the precession. The villagers hiked upriver and deserted the spring; its inner light, made from magic, faded. The Sorcerers left the cold pool, the bristly northern wind, and the bleak, cursed starlight.

#

_I was wrong about these people._

On the way upriver, the precession marched along the eastern bank. Though most of the village was dark, now and then a single candle pierced the night, apart from the precession. When the march passed one of these lonely beacons, a maiden, a nursemaid, broke from the line, and some villagers—the people who lived among the huts there—followed. To the solitary candle, the mother, the nursemaid presented the basket and bowed, and all the mother's neighbors bowed, too.

_They think they're so powerful, that magic is everything._

The precession thinned as the villagers proceeded north. More of their companions returned to their homes, and the baskets, the bundles, soon ran low. When the last basket remained, few villagers beyond Sindoor and the nursemaids accompanied it. Once more they bowed, paying respects to the last mother on their sacred path.

And Ranma, too, watched from afar. Arts of stealth and trickery made the night his cloak and shield, but they quelled not his disgust, revulsion, or rage. Discipline held those emotions in check, however. Rather than lash out at these Sorcerers and what they did to their young, Ranma felt cold inside. He felt numb.

_They use Tilaka to control their power, to cap it off when it wants to explode, but they wouldn't need to. If they didn't keep studying these powers, no one would need to be the Sieve. No one would have to be cursed… _

Numbness gave him focus and concentration for the task ahead. As the moon soared above, Ranma stalked the last mother. She was a girl, not much older than he, with a petite, adolescent figure. When Sindoor and the nursemaids departed, Ranma crouched behind the house, peeking through a back window, listening with a hand against the wall. The girl called to her elder sisters, who brought out their own children to meet the new arrival.

_There's nothing noble about this, nothing honorable or even necessary. They're greedy, all of them. They're unwilling to live without magic. They don't care it's dangerous. They'll destroy anything to hold on to it._

After hours of laughter and awe with the new life, the last mother and her sisters slept. Curled up on a woven mat, the girl's arm draped over her child, holding the baby against her chest.

Through the back window Ranma hopped inside; he crept atop the balls of his feet. Quick and silent, he stole the items needed to know the truth of the ritual: a candle bowl, a wick in wax on water, but he plucked the candle from the surface and tossed it aside. For the mother, he slid the child away by the blanket she slept in. Cradling the baby against his shoulder, Ranma tip-toed around the women and children. He slipped through the front door, and in the open space of the village, on soft dirt and smooth rock, he laid the child on her back, the blanket her only comforter.

"_Someone who changes form. Their ki is freer, more powerful." That's what Tilaka said. They curse their own children, and for what? Power? Like that even justifies it! Like that's even an excuse! _ Ranma balled his fist, calming himself. _They're doing to these kids on purpose what happened to me on accident. They're not even giving them a choice… _

He touched his palm to the child's face, to a warmth of human skin and blood that brushed off the chilly wind. "Sorry," said Ranma. "I need to see what they did to you." He laughed. "After all, maybe all I saw was a Chinese baptism."

The baby turned her head. Eyes shut, she kicked once, but no more.

"Yeah, well, I didn't think so, either." Ranma picked up the bowl with both hands. "That's why I'm doing this."

The water within sloshed about, and droplets splashed over the rim. He stepped back, standing over the child, and tilted the bowl a degree at a time, careful that the flow not drown her.

The water made a clacking sound when it hit the dirt. The baby girl's eyes snapped open.

"Aw, come on, don't—"

She wailed. She cried. She screamed and thrashed like a hyena, caught on its back. Inside the house, groggy voices called to one another. Slow drawls rose to frantic shouts, and hurried footsteps kicked up dirt.

"Dammit!" Ranma dumped the bowl on the baby, shaking it out for every last drop.

The cries lowered and deepened, more visceral, animal.

The visceral cry of a human child, choking on water, drowning.

Ranma picked up the girl, patting her back gently to bring the water out. "It can't be," he said. "I know what I saw; I'm sure of it."

To the cries of the baby, the shouts of her mother, the villager came to life again. They lit torches; they charged from their homes. The mother dashed out the door, breaking on the rocks. A ring of fire encircled Ranma; the villagers blocked any path of escape.

Ranma rubbed the girl's back, soothing her discomfort. Eying the mob of angry villagers, he turned in place, uncertain where an attack might come from, but the enemy made no move against him. Even the mother said nothing. She shed no tears; she pleaded not for the safety of her child, not that Ranma would understand if she did.

_That's what it is, isn't it? There's something off about them, about the way they act and talk and move. They're cold, brutal. They don't know compassion or fear, just rage and fury._

To the mother who showed no care or worry for her child, Ranma offered the baby girl. Safer though it may be, he wouldn't hide behind an infant. The mother took the child in her arms, but her gaze held on Ranma, and the villagers closed in. They circled him, torches blazing.

Ranma huffed. At least these guys had an excuse. They weren't warriors; they didn't know any better. He shoved the mother aside. He punched for the sky.

CRACK!

And from the swirling winds of the tornado, Ranma marched off, balling his fists.

_They're not just cursing the children to make them powerful._

All along the riverbank, the village stirred to life. The twister pulled riverwater and sprayed it in the air. The mother and her sisters fled the scene with their children, sounding the alarm to anyone who would hear, like a wolf who howls at the moon, alerting the rest of the pack.

_They're not even human. Maybe they have wings or fangs or I don't know what, but these _things_ are masquerading as people. Somebody needs to know, and I need to tell them._

The low clouds overhead cleared. The waning moon and point-like stars presided over the night. They were universal, for even across the sea, a girl back home might watch them, as he watched them now.

_I'm breaking out of this place, even if I have to burn it to the ground._

* * *

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	11. The Village IV: Escape

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

* * *

**Escape**

_Chapter Two Finale_

Along the river valley of the Ki Sorcerers, fires beat back the dark. Under torches' light, patrols scoured the village, seeking the girl who dared violate their young.

"We've yet to sight her, my lady," said the captain, Wuya. "The mothers and nursemaids are safe; I've seen to it."

The leader of the Sorcerers paced before the main gate to the palace. She walked with closed eyes, yet she knew by touch the features around her: the distance to the fortress wall, the subtle irregularities of the earth. "Our guest isn't interested in the mothers," said Sindoor. "She wants what any caged animal would want." Her eyes snapped open. She grabbed an oil lamp from the wall and thrust it into the darkness, driving out the shadows. "Isn't that right, Saotome Ranma?"

Ranma stepped up, into the lamp's glow. "I know what you people are. I know what you're doing to your children. You're raising them to be something they're not."

Sindoor chuckled. "You know nothing of our people, outsider. You know not what we do or why. Tell us of Saffron, and we may forget these trespasses. We can let you leave. You desire this, yes?"

"Do you think I'm stupid? You don't care about kindness or generosity, forgiveness or respect. All you care about is your magic. You use Tilaka. You use your children. You use your people to build this great stone palace, and it's all for your glory. Am I right?"

"The palace glorifies the people!" said Wuya. "How dare you judge our ways!"

"I'll judge if I please, and I do," said Ranma. "I'm breaking out of this village, whether you like it or not."

"Then you choose to be our enemy," said Sindoor. "A foolish enemy, at that. How do expect to leave without our blessing? Through the Maze you cannot pass."

Ranma laughed. "You're too proud of yourselves."

"And why is that?"

"Because if you weren't proud, you'd have attacked me by now. You wouldn't have let me walk freely, either this morning or tonight. But you know what the worst thing is?" He held up his index finger and pointed it to the sky. "You wouldn't have made the walls of your palace out of solid rock."

Sindoor flinched. "You wouldn't."

Ranma smirked, touching the edge of his finger to the wall. "Actually, I would. Kind of like this!"

BAM! The wall shattered; boulders blasted the guards. Sindoor and Wuya hit the deck, sheltering themselves from a spray of pebbles. The mound of earth collapsed, throwing up dust and flooding the defenders in dirt.

Sindoor kicked her way out of the landslide, wiping the soil from her robes. "She's means to harm the channelers! After her, quickly!"

#

Wall after wall Ranma shattered with Ryōga's _Bakusai Tenketsu_, the Breaking Point technique, flooding the outer levels with the stemmed pressure of walled-up earth. These landslides held his foes at bay, and with the majority of the Guard searching for him in the upper village, minimal defenders would protect the tower.

_Looks like I've learned something from you after all, Ryōga._

When he reached the door to Sindoor's chambers, Ranma leapt atop the thin ledge of the doorframe and climbed. Each level of the tower was narrower than the last, and on fingertip holds Ranma pulled himself up, floor by floor. The mid levels, the ones with the channelers, had no windows, but from the top of the tower, one could see Jusendō. There was a window on the uppermost floor, facing the east.

And Ranma snuck his arms inside it, barreling through the gap headfirst. He rolled to his feet, and in pitch darkness, he tip-toed over the hard, irregular flooring, whispering a name.

"Tilaka?" He listened for an answer. "Yo, Tilaka!"

A low murmur echoed off the walls, distinct but unintelligible.

"Sorry, still don't speak that."

The voice changed, formed itself into something coherent. "It's you?"

"Yeah, it's me. You got a light?"

A spark of energy shot from Tilaka's fingers, igniting the fire. "Is that better?"

"It is." Ranma leapt; he tackled the boy and locked an elbow around his neck.

"Why? What are you—"

Ranma pressed his palm against Tilaka's mouth. "This is my insurance. You messed with my head the last time I was here. Try it again, and you'll be asleep in ten seconds. Got it?"

Tilaka blinked, passive, unmoving.

"Okay then." Ranma lifted his hand. "Tell me something: you said people who were cursed can do better magic, right?"

"No, people who change their form."

"Fine, whatever. If you change someone back from their cursed form, what happens to their ability to do magic?"

"Why do you—"

Ranma pressed his arm against the carotid artery, choking off the flow of blood to the brain. "Answer me plainly. What happens if they change back?"

"The magic…" The boy writhed, struggling, but Ranma held his grip. "The magic isn't as strong."

Ranma nodded. This was his ticket out, the way to neutralize their magic, at least for a time. Maybe long enough to break through the forest and breach the edge of the Maze.

Tilaka went limp, sagging in Ranma's arms.

"It's just good night for a while," said Ranma. He eased Tilaka's head to the floor. "Now, how much time do I have?" He jogged to the window and peered out.

Torches from the Guard's defense parties closed on the tower. Most came from the river and the upper valley, to the north, but others circled the palace, struggling for headway against the black and dirt.

"Not much. They'll look for any way up here, to get to me." Ranma stepped over Tilaka. He stamped out the fire and crouched by the door. He rapped on the cold steel three times.

Tap tap tap.

The guards undid the latch. They crept inside.

THUD! Ranma shoved the door in their faces. He yanked a staff from its owner's hands and swiped at the other's shins. He twirled the stick, gaining momentum, and crushed a guard's collarbone with the heavy metal tip. Tilaka's defenders fell, dazed and wounded. Ranma stole their daggers, slashing both.

"Sorry I can't be sanitary," said Ranma, strapping a sheath to his waist. "I'm gonna need a good one for anyone else I find." He dragged the guards to lie with Tilaka and latched the door behind him. "At least if someone comes by wondering where you went, it'll take them a while to figure it out. Maybe."

On his way down the center stairs, he extinguished the torches, casting the spiral descent in deepening black. The guards took no kindness to his deeds: they herded the channelers away from the doors. They grabbed torches and swiped at the dark, but Ranma danced in the shadows. He baited them up the tower, towards safe territory. He stole the clothes off their backs, the daggers from their hips, and gashed them on their arms and legs. They snoozed on the the stone stairs, and Ranma glimpsed his targets, the dull, pale channelers, who clung to the firelight, crowding against the back walls.

Ranma picked up a guard's battle staff and leveled it on his foes. "Somewhere on this floor there's a fountain, right?"

The channelers watched him, blank, expressionless.

"Fine. Doesn't matter if you can understand what I say or not." He thrust the tip forward, startling the crowd. "You understand that well enough, don't you? Move it!"

At staff-point, Ranma drove the channelers away from the staircase. Like sheep before their herdsman, they wandered the level, past mats and low tables. Total accommodations to live, all on a single floor of the tower. They slept, they ate, they bathed here…

A gray mist crept along the ceiling, expanding in puffs and billows.

They made wishes here.

Ranma prodded the group of channelers away from the doors, locking both when they filed inside. From a corner he snatched a clay pot and dunked it in the pool. He poured the water over him, closing his eyes, relishing the warmth.

"Well," said a deeper, commanding voice, "now we're in business."

The channelers linked their hands, humming. They watched him with death glares, the disdain reserved for a denier.

"You think a little noise scares me?" Ranma dipped the pot again, filled it to the brim with water. "Who wants to be first?"

The hum intensified, a bass tone and component harmonics, a deafening fever-pitch.

"Say goodbye to your magic!"

Silence, emptiness. The channelers disappeared.

Ranma spun around, but the room lay deserted, save for the flowing fountain. "Another trick? You think you can trick me with this again?" He flung the contents of the pot.

And the water splashed on the wall. Again and again he filled the pot. He spun around and sprayed the room with water, yet only the torches flickered. The empty room remained. He even dashed to the doors and peered beyond.

He saw a room. A fountain. A young man cracking the far door open and peeking through the gap.

Ranma slammed the door behind him. Only one word captured his frustration, his panic.

"Shit."

BANG BANG! The steel doors dented; they rattled and shook, bursting against the locks.

"Oh, sure!" said Ranma. "You guys can get in, but I can't get out?"

TEW! A beam of light blasted a door off its hinges! The Sorcerers barreled inside, staves whirling. They chopped; they slashed. Ranma parried, but the enemy's stick slid along his and smashed his finger between wood and grip.

"Bastard!" Ranma kicked his foes away. He spun the staff before him and swung it like a baseball bat.

CRACK! Home run. A Sorcerer fell. The staff splintered, and Ranma tossed away the fragments, baring his fists.

"Come on!" he said. "You guys want to go? Let's go!"

En masse they charged Ranma, poking, thrusting with staves, slashing with daggers. The staff-wielders Ranma dispatched of easily: the small, enclosed space pushed them nearer then their reach liked, and in extreme close quarters, Ranma yanked the stick downward and punched over it, kicked under it, butted heads with his foes. He ducked and dodged daggers, and the Sorcerers tranquilized their own kin with their strikes. Effective techniques in closed space, but in the confines of the fountain room, the bodies of the wounded encroached on the floor space. Save for a narrow path to the blown door, Ranma found himself backed up against the fountain, struggling to find footing that wouldn't tug his ankle from under him.

_People don't just disappear. They have to go somewhere; they have to be somewhere._ Ranma lugged a defeated Sorcerer by the elbow. He spun in place, flinging the man around like a weight on a rope, staying the other Sorcerers' advance. "You people might be smarter than I thought," he said. "You hide in front of my face. You can side-step water. Maybe you can even stop it with magic, but do that to a man, and it'll be worse than if he hit solid concrete. Do you really want to take that chance?"

Plant, step, throw! The channelers tumbled, like bowling pins. The spell was broken.

Clang, clang!

But not for long. The Guard beat down the second door. The channelers dusted themselves off, joining hands once more. A row of Sorcerers dashed forward, staff points up, like a charge of angry elephants.

Ranma backpedaled. He flipped, end over end, and landed atop the fountain, a place where his opponents' staves became mere prodding sticks.

_This is it. I ain't getting out of here any other way. Only hot water will stop them._

He gazed into the pool below, the flowing water, the flickering reflection as droplets fell and merged with the surface.

_There's water all over here, not just in the fountain. It's below us, in the floor, the walls. There have to be pipes. There's water everywhere._

The channelers tuned their voices. The warriors of the Guard dashed forward in lockstep, sliding their hands back on their staves, poised to thrust. The room, the erratic firelight, slowed to a crawl, and for the first time, Ranma saw clearly what he was up against: he had no chance of escaping this place, not now. Sindoor caught him creeping around the main gate, and he had to be flashy to distract her. He wasted time seeing Tilaka, confirming suspicions, when he should've acted on them instead. As for dousing scores of channelers in hot water, he didn't have a plan for that either, just hope. Blind hope that somehow, he'd dispel their powers and escape.

The hope for a cure, the hope that he might come home a man.

He hopped off the fountain, waded in its water. _I may not be getting out of here yet, I may not be a guy all the time, but if nothing else, I'm finding out just how twisted and wrong these people are! _ He wiggled his fingers, cocked his arm, and brought the full force of his fist against the fount.

BAM! The statue shattered, debris showered over the room, and water—hot, steaming water—rained over the Sorcerers. The undirected spray extinguished the torches, and in darkness, low, guttural cries haunted the tower.

"I thought you wanted to leave."

Ranma scampered to his feet, feeling around the black. A jet of fountain water shot out, spraying his face. "Who's there?"

A light penetrated the doorway. Under the glow of a torch, Tilaka hovered, peering inside. "If you wanted to leave, you should've listened to me."

"I did that!" said Ranma.

"To stop the channelers' magic, to stop _my_ magic, you need to make them return to their true form."

"With hot water!"

"No."

"No? What—" Ranma tripped on a fragment of the fountain, making his way to the door. "Tilaka, if someone's cursed," asked Ranma, "how do you change them? How do you make them the way they should be?"

"The human race is born cursed. Only the blessing of the spring makes us whole."

Ranma stomped over to him, yanking him by the collar. "Dammit, stop speaking in riddles! Answer the question: hot water or cold?"

"Cold, of course."

_Cold water._

Ranma's grip faltered. He let Tilaka go, and the boy stumbled, weak on his feet. _They really think __they're born wrong._ He snatched the torch from Tilaka's hands, shielding it from the fountain's spray. Over a defeated Sorcerer, Ranma held the burning flame. Water collected in the eyebrows and between the lips. It was a face that couldn't be average and ordinary, yet it surprised Ranma, all the same.

It was human, too. The Sorcerer Guard, the channelers—they were all human, dripping with hot water.

"Doesn't make sense," said Ranma. "I poured cold water on that baby. The baby was human. You're all human. So what does that mean?"

"It's our curse to be different. We live with bodies that don't match who we are inside." Tilaka smiled. "Like you."

_Like me? _

BANG! The steel door bounced off its hinges.

"Get away from him!"

A hard, metal tip bashed Ranma's kneecap. The attacker wrestled him to the floor and climbed on top of him, pressing the staff across his windpipe.

"Captain, restrain yourself!" said Sindoor, rushing into the room. "Captain Wuya!"

Tilaka picked up the forgotten torch, pallid, shaking. "Wuya? Captain Wuya?"

Sindoor motioned to her men. "Take the Sieve back to his chambers!"

"Wuya!"

The guards lifted Tilaka by his elbows and ankles. Sindoor herself pried the torch from his hands. The boy shouted, incoherent, but Wuya only gritted her teeth. She said nothing to calm him, nor did she answer his cries. Instead, she bore down on Ranma, bending the staff under the force of her weight.

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't kill you," she said. "You abuse Tilaka's kindness. You attack children; you destroy our village!"

Ranma met her gaze, eyes wide and defiant. He pushed back on the staff, panting, opening his throat. The words that came out were raspy, like gravel, but they made his message clear.

"I know where Saffron is," he said. "I beat him."

"Liar! You could never beat Saffron!"

"I fought him when he had no control, when he was literally burning himself out. How do you think you'll fare if you face his full adult form?" Ranma coughed, rubbing his throat. "He'll blast you off the side of the mountain, that's what, but I know their mountain. I know the caverns under their spring. Saffron is the next Sieve for your village, and only I can help you take him alive."

Her robes wet with fountain water, Sindoor knelt beside Ranma, bringing the torch to cast light on all three faces.

"Well?" said Ranma. "We got a deal or what?"

#

For beings of great power, life's pulse is like waves on a pond. Every motion on the surface ripples to the shore and back again. The ripples say much to those who know how to hear them, how to feel them.

In safety and surety, peace and calm, the Sorcerer, Sindoor, meditated in her private chambers. She dipped her finger in a bowl and marveled at the waves and their reflections. Even here, well within her fortress, she couldn't avoid the ripples, nor could she keep from influencing them. The deeds of men react with one another, a messy interplay, that no one—not plant, animal, or Sorcerer—can shape or predict. To feel the ripples wasn't to know the future, only the present instead.

A present in which the finest laborers of the village rebuilt the palace walls, the ones Saotome Ranma destroyed on his rampage within the tower. On the inner rings, the first to be recast, the Sorcerer Guard trained, redoubling their resolve for a new mission: the invasion of the Phoenix people, the taking of Saffron, the rightful, chosen Sieve. And while the lieutenant patrolled the training grounds, whipping the Guardsmen for their sloppy footwork, the captain oversaw the affairs with a pigtailed girl at her side.

_If these people think I'll give them Saffron on a platter, they're wrong,_ thought Ranma. _I'll take them to the mountain. I'll lead them up the steps to Saffron's lair. What Phoenix and Sorcerer do to each other after that ain't my concern. These people want to fight and die, so be it. A few well-placed lies can rout an army better than any general, any weapon ever could. You fight the Phoenix. You people go and die. I'm going home, dammit. I'm going to be a man again._

In any group of people, a small subset dominates the rest. Their ripples overwhelm all others. The tidal wave engulfs the shallow breaker. Sindoor herself was one such person, a natural position as leader of the tribe. Ranma, too, would shape the future of the village, the time evolution of its fate, but there were others, just as important, if not more. Tilaka, the last Sieve, high in his chambers atop the tower, and the captain, Wuya. As Xiu and Ranma tended to the Guard's training, Wuya scaled the spire, past the libraries, past the crowded halls of the channelers. She burst through the topmost door of the tower and faced Tilaka's protectors.

"Captain Wuya, by Lady Sindoor's orders—"

Punch, chop, kick!

The captain trained her men well, but every teacher withholds something crucial from her students, in case she should ever meet them in battle. Staff in hand, Wuya nudged the unconscious bodies aside. She jiggled the handle and pushed the door open.

"I've been waiting for you."

She barred the door with her staff, just to be sure. Tilaka sat by the fire, the only light in the room. Wuya crouched beside him, trying to glimpse his hooded face.

"When the Lady told me I should be Sieve, she said my friend had drowned herself, that the guilt, the shame of breaking taboo was too much for her to bear. At first, I didn't believe it, that someone so much stronger than me would despair, but the Lady told me so, and I believed her. She told me so often, I couldn't _not_ believe her."

"It was your punishment," said Wuya. "It was the only way she could make you want to do this."

"And you? Were you punished too?"

"Every day." She pointed to the stairwell, to the observation windows above. "Every day, I've watched you. I know the horrors they subjected you to, but I could do nothing. The Lady forbade even speaking to you."

Tilaka nodded. "There were times I thought I felt your presence, but I dismissed it. I thought it an echo, like a spirit, a ghost. It only made me want to forget."

"You don't need to anymore."

"The priests will be here soon. They'll help me recenter." He cast a hand over the fire, slow and steady. "I am Sieve; I bear the energies that the people cannot. I—"

"Look at me, Tilaka."

The boy shook his head, staring into the fire. "I feel nothing, for I am nothing. I am the void. I am the emptiness that soothes—"

Wuya snatched a torch from its wall mount and lit it in the fire. One by one she lifted the veil of darkness from the room, lighting torches that for so long had laid dormant. She stomped on the fire pit, mashing the embers under her feet.

"Will you look at me now?"

Trembling, Tilaka pulled his hood back, eyes glued to the floor.

"You've borne this burden too long, my friend," said Wuya. "You need not punish yourself any longer."

"It is my duty!"

"But it shouldn't be! Not anymore! The outsider will deliver Saffron. Let _him_ bear the weight of our sins."

Tilaka rose, meeting her gaze. "You're losing control."

"I don't care." She stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and pressed a hand to his face. "Feel what I feel, Tilaka, and never be Sieve again."

Even through many levels of stone, the strength of such ripples is great indeed, or at least, great enough to rouse the Sorcerer from her meditation, to displace tranquility and calm with disquiet on her face. To the salute of her servants, Sindoor left her chambers, carrying the bowl, her meditation aid. She journeyed up the tower, a step at a time, careful not to spill a drop. Water is precious, after all. It cures many ailments. It restores the body to its truest form. When Sindoor reached the top of the tower, she found Wuya, who inched the door to Tilaka's chambers shut.

"You grow too attached to the Sieve, captain."

Wuya twitched, startled, but she did not face her Lady. "Saffron will be Sieve. Tilaka should not perform this duty anymore."

"That," said Sindoor, "is a decision not yours to make."

"Long I have served you, my lady, and asked for nothing in return. I do not ask for favors, as Xiu does. I do not ask for indulgences."

"Your service should be its own reward."

"Say what you will. As Sieve, Tilaka was the most helpless of us. If we cannot protect him from ourselves, then my service means nothing."

Sindoor looked to the bowl, to her own reflection in the water. "This favor cannot come without price, captain."

Wuya stiffened. "Go on."

"As long as we hide behind the Maze, we are isolated. We know too little of the outside world, of the Phoenix, to be effective in capturing him. If we should make Saffron the Sieve, the Phoenix will demand vengeance. They will come looking for us, and while they cannot penetrate the Maze, they can besiege us, if they so choose. We must establish a base of operations outside the village, both to stage this attack and intercept any forces that come after us."

"You have a location in mind?"

Sindoor nodded slightly.

"The spring ground?"

"Indeed."

Wuya narrowed her eyes. "You only wish to separate me from Tilaka."

"I could instead ask the priests to remind Tilaka of his experiences," said Sindoor. "Or should I see to it myself?"

Wuya glanced aside. "What of my other duties?"

"Those functions can be suspended, for a time. Your skills may be needed in that body, but you should remember your place and who you are." Sindoor offered the bowl of water to her. "Captain Kohl."

Water splashed on the floor. Dripping wet, Kohl returned the empty bowl, adjusting his clothes. "Yes, my lady."

"Make your preparations for the expedition," said Sindoor. "I must meditate."

Kohl gave a slight bow, and Sindoor departed, down the steps, back toward her throne and chambers. For all her interference, her efforts to stifle the waves, the ripples proceeded unhindered.

_The human race is cursed, but through these blessed forms we rise above. We bury the feelings that would drive us to sin. Anger, jealousy, rage… _

Sindoor filled her bowl with water from a small trough, admiring her own stoic, immaculate reflection.

_Love._

_**Identity**_** 02, End**

* * *

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	12. Journey to Jusenkyo: Prelude

**Note:** Beginning with this chapter, I've decided that I'd try something bold: trying to write on a more fixed schedule, and doing so to post installments on a weekly basis. It's … well, dangerous. If my previous pace holds, I don't know if I'll be able to maintain this schedule and finish chapter four by the time each part of this chapter is up. We'll have to see. But I do hope that posting in smaller, more frequent chunks will make this story more readable and give me finer feedback on things people like (and dislike), rather than have to deal with more than twenty thousand words of text, all of which, if read in one sitting, must surely leave folks in a bit of a haze. Haze can be good, of course, but I don't want size to be the only reason for that.

Anyway, let me know what you think of the new chapter lengths, if you have an opinion. Thanks again for reading and reviewing.

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** When Ranma left for Jusenkyō, his three fiancée's—Shampoo, Ukyō, and Akane—stayed behind. Now, it's time for consequences of past deeds to catch up to them, and for the mission to save Ranma to begin.

* * *

**Journey to Jusenkyō**

_A chapter in six acts_

**Prelude**

Many hours from the village of the Sorcerers, no one knew the danger Ranma faced. Indeed, to the denizens of Nerima, the town's favorite son was merely curing the curse he'd always had, and though the boys of Furinkan High mourned this loss, others in town found reason to celebrate. Reason, even, to gather by the dinner table and eat cake.

"And what good cake it is!" Genma shoveled down a bite, clearing his plate. "Very satisfying."

Kasumi cut a slice from the half-eaten sheet. "It's not too rich, is it? The frosting was on sale. We hadn't tried it before."

"We?" said Soun.

Akane picked at the middle layer of icing with her fork, averting her father's gaze.

"Ah, Auntie and I, of course," said Kasumi.

"Are you sure?" asked Nabiki. "I think I taste something sour. You didn't put lime in it, did you?"

"I'm sure there's no lime in it," said Nodoka. "We checked."

Kasumi cleared her throat. "Auntie?"

"Oh!" Nodoka laughed. "That is, why would there be lime in it? Limes don't go in cake."

"But some of us might get them easily confused," said Nabiki.

Akane glared. "Kasumi, may I have another slice?"

"Come now, Akane," said Nabiki. "You haven't finished your first yet."

Gritting her teeth, Akane watched only her other sister. "Kasumi?"

"Here you are." The eldest sister cut her a fresh corner piece.

"Thanks!" Akane took to her feet. "I think I'll finish this while I write up my homework."

"I thought you didn't have homework," said Nabiki.

Akane smiled sweetly. "Of course I do. I have homework from China, remember?" With that, she slipped out. She passed the kitchen—the residual warmth of the oven, the crisp aroma of batter and baking pans.

It was the smell of victory. Sure, she'd needed help to conquer this recipe; there was no substitute for two pairs of watchful eyes. Kasumi kept Akane from dumping mass quantities of baking soda in the bowl, and Nodoka dialed down the heat when Akane twisted the knob off the controls. The wisdom and vigilance of her adoptive aunt and sister shaped her excitement, and with the result, Akane couldn't be happier. The cake was perfect. The day of hard work in the kitchen brought both satisfaction and joy. Family and friends alike partook of the dessert, much to her delight.

But someone was still missing.

Akane pulled open a sliding door, kneeling by a trio of unrolled futons. She laid the paper plate on the pillow and ran her hand over the blanket, smoothing the wrinkles.

"I know it might not be any good when you get back," she said to an empty room. "But it's yours anyway. I…" She shivered. "I made it for you. So just try it, all right? You might even like it."

An easy pattern to fall into, assuming he'd reject her cooking just by mere mention. Akane had to remind herself things had changed—no, Ranma had changed. He cried over her body. He didn't deny they had something between them. He told off Ukyō and Shampoo, so she, so Akane, would be safe.

And Akane never gave him a chance to tell her. He'd changed much, growing from boy to man, but Akane? She hadn't grown up at all. She was a hateful, jealous girl. Only someone with poison in their heart could say what she said to him that day, in the minutes before the coldest rain fell.

"_You are not a man, Ranma!"_

She stood up, shaking. Her hand searched for a surface, for some support to ease her weight, but on the wall she found a calendar, a flimsy bundle of pages with Chinese scenery on the back of each month. Ten red crosses blotted out the the days, and Akane felt every one of them like a weight on her chest. A pressure, she imagined, like when a scuba diver swims too deep, and the cold, watery abyss pushes the air from her lungs. It's a crushing force. It shows no mercy. They are the same: pressure and guilt. One of these days, Ranma would come home a man both inside and out, but would he look upon her with fondness and love? Or would he rightly see her as an enemy, an obstacle, instead? She questioned his manhood, after all. Once he proved her wrong, he needn't have anything to do with her. He could show he was a man with someone else, someone who wasn't her, and she'd deserve every second of that torture, of watching him laugh and smile and touch another girl.

"But you're in China now. What I said was terrible, but you're going to be cured. I would've married you to get the water for you. I should be able to give you up for it, too. I should." She shuddered. "I should."

"Bwee?" A black piglet tugged at Akane's heels, peering at his master's solemn expression.

"Oh, P-chan." She took the animal in her arms, holding him to her face. "I'm glad you've been here since Ranma left. I don't know what I would've done otherwise."

"Akane-chan?"

She jerked, startled. "Auntie?"

"What are you doing here? I thought you were going to your room."

"Oh, well, that's, um…"

"It's all right," said Nodoka. "You don't need to explain. I'm sure Ranma would like it."

Akane blushed, bowing her head.

"We've been looking for you, though. You have a visitor."

_A visitor? _

Nodoka led Akane back to the dining room, and the guest bolted up with delight.

"Tendō Akane, please forgive me!" He lunged at Akane, wrapping her in a stolid embrace. "I let the pigtailed girl take my heart from you!"

"Kunō-sempai? Where did you come from? How—" Her heart skipped a beat. "Where's Ranma?"

"I do not know. Please, concern yourself not with Saotome."

Akane slipped from his grasp and yanked him by the collar. "Where is Ranma? Where did he go?"

"Saotome has new training partners. I did not inquire about their ways, but please, you must help me. The pigtailed girl is in danger!"

Nabiki turned away, stifling a chuckle. "Oh, Kunō-chan, do we have a story to tell you…"

Akane glared. "Sister!" She turned her attention back on Kunō. "All right then, what happened to the 'pigtailed girl'? Where is she?"

"She has been taken—abducted from the training ground, right before my eyes."

Her grip wavered. "Taken? Abducted…?"

And so word of Ranma's true fate reached Nerima. For some, it would be a moment of relief and dread, knowing the Sorcerers walked the earth again. For others, Ranma's disappearance would trump everything else in their lives; they would stop at nothing to find him. For Akane, knowing she propelled Ranma on his journey, word of his vanishing stirred a tumult of emotions: annoyance, irritation, anger. They were her ever-present companions, for it was better to be angry at someone—at Kunō, at Ranma, at herself—than let softer emotions weaken her, cripple her. Feelings of worry, anxiety, fear…

Or guilt.

* * *

**Next: Journey to Jusenkyo Part I - The Nerima Conclave.** Learning the dire history of the Sorcerers, Akane shies away from her own weakness, afraid to go to Ranma's aid in China. **Coming April 16, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	13. Journey I: The Nerima Conclave

_Identity_ is also available in PDF: read or download from scribd [dot] com [slash] doc [slash] 26966962 [slash] Identity (or follow the link from my blog)

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** Cologne retells the history of the Sorcerers, and Akane faces up to her inner cowardice, having hidden her heart from Ranma for so long.

* * *

**The Nerima Conclave**

_Chapter Three, Act One_

"I spoke at some length with the Kunō boy," said Cologne. "A strange child he is, most peculiar in his thinking."

By the dinner table of the Tendō house, the interested parties convened, sipping tea to a warm spring breeze. Soun and Akane took up the head positions at the table. Kasumi served the guests, and Nabiki gladly gave her seat away, citing more "pressing" matters.

"Hey, if your fiancé truly has gone missing, I can sell these gourmet hankies for three times what they were worth," she reasoned.

A flying water bottle punctuated Akane's displeasure.

The other members at the table were sixfold: Nodoka and Genma, of course. Ukyō found time to leave her shop in Konatsu's hands. And, by some luck, Ryōga mysteriously arrived as soon as word of the meeting got around. Cologne and Shampoo rounded out the group, with the senior Amazon directing this impromptu council—the group responsible for Ranma's rescue, if such an attempt were made at all.

But, for the moment, the topic was the messenger, Kunō.

"He seemed most confused about son-in-law's curse," said Cologne. "For a time, he maintained Ranma and this 'pigtailed girl' he lusts after were two different people. I could hardly believe that he was ignorant of the curse or how it worked, especially when it involved someone so … dear to him."

Ryōga twitched. "What are you looking at me for?"

"At any rate, I soon grew tired of the boy's incoherent babbling. He refused to listen to reason."

A series of grunts and thuds interrupted her. In the distance, Kunō Tatewaki climbed over the compound wall. Fluttering his arms, he leapt from the top!

And splatted, face first, into the ground.

"Thus," said Cologne, "I made him incapable of it."

Seemingly uninjured, Kunō struggled to his feet, flapping like a bird. His head jerked and twitched. He approached a cluster of flowers and dipped his nose in the petals.

"He believes himself a butterfly," said Cologne. "As you can see, he's trying to suck nectar from the plants."

The group at the dinner table gawked, their eyes following Kunō as he sniffed a plume of pollen.

"Is it permanent?" asked Akane.

"Unfortunately, no. It is but a simple trick. He will regain his faculties in a few days, but I do think this state of mind is an improvement for him."

"Why did you pick a butterfly?" asked Ukyō.

Kunō fluttered about the tree by the pond, rubbing his body against the bark.

"Because butterflies don't talk."

Even Kasumi cocked her head, distracted from her duties. "My, Kunō-kun seems quite pleasant today."

Cologne cleared her throat, demanding attention from the spectacle behind her. "Entertaining as the Kunō boy may be, that's not why I asked to meet here. Something has happened to my son-in-law."

Nodoka's cup clinked on the table.

"That is, Saotome Ranma," said Cologne. "We all have our own interests in him, and while I meant to depart for China today, I know some of you would follow, uninformed, unprepared for what awaits you." She looked to Akane. "You would only get yourselves killed."

Akane gulped, transfixed with the old lady's words.

"As I said, I spoke with the Kunō child, and though misguided he is, he described clearly enough who has abducted Ranma. They are a people not heard of for some time. Some among my kind thought they'd vanished from this earth, leaving only illusions behind, but I knew this to be untrue. Wielders of magic as they are, they wouldn't disappear without howl or whimper. No, the wisest of my tribe have always felt the Ki Sorcerers, as you would call them, must've sequestered themselves on purpose, though whether to rebuild or make war I cannot say.

"For centuries, the politics of the Jusenkyō Basin had been dominated by three tribes: the Tribe of the Eternal Flame, the Phoenix people, controlled the lands south of the springs and built their capital in the mountain they named for themselves. To the northeast, the Tribe of the River Warriors were traders, farmers, and martial artists, with a rich tradition of tournaments and rival schools. But to the west, sheltered between two mountains, lay the village of the Ki Sorcerers. Though they practiced their magic in relative seclusion, the allure of such power attracted interest from all the tribes in the region—not just the three great powers but the lesser tribes, too. When, in the past, the River Warriors commanded great respect for their traditions, the Sorcerers grew vocal, insistent, and more and more the many tribes began to heed them instead. Tensions sparked between the villages; petty quarrels, in hindsight, but quarrels all the same. After a series of insults and confrontations, war seemed inevitable.

"But the politicians of the two tribes, well-meaning in their goals, arranged a pact, a last gambit to bring peace to the basin. From the River Warriors, one of the twelve Elders gave her granddaughter, Ceruse, to marry the Sorcerer Prince Yi, and for a time, a short time, the two tribes came to an understanding. Ceruse became a second ambassador of sorts between the two peoples, for she was much beloved among her kin, and the Sorcerers respected her skill with the bow and her natural aptitude for their ways. Some optimists might've thought that, from rivalry and distrust, the two tribes would become great allies.

"Until Ceruse and her husband disappeared. One morning, word reached the River Warriors that she and Yi had vanished, leaving their infant daughter behind. The Warriors demanded access to the Sorcerers' village, but their efforts to investigate this affair were rebuffed. The Sorcerers banished outsiders from their lands. They kept Ceruse's daughter for themselves, unwilling to hear claims from the River people. Theories abounded throughout the basin: rumors that Ceruse and Yi had been murdered, that the queen's court had taken ill to the peace and wished, instead, to renew hostilities over their bodies. Yi's brother, Prince Bailu, steadfastly ignored the River people's entreaties. Over this disaster, the tribes took to the battlefields. The Jusenkyō Basin was at war.

"The River Warriors went on the offensive, claiming territory on a march to the Sorcerers' village. The conflict looked to be quick and decisive: though the Sorcerers wielded great magic, they were by nature a small tribe, unable to match the raw numbers of the River people. The front of war pushed to the Sorcerers' doorstep, swallowing the lower quarter of the village. The River people were poised for victory.

"And then the Sorcerers slaughtered them. A powerful magic extinguished all life in the valley, both Sorcerer and River folk alike. Thousands perished, and only a sparse remnant of the River people's army returned to their village to spread the news. It was that day the River people changed, for old traditions had dealt them a harsh twist of fate. In their tribe, doctrine held that the women, warriors as well-trained and disciplined as the men, would be better defenders of the village proper; only the men participated in offensive actions. But with the death of their invasion force, the River people faced a quandary: of their young, up-and-coming men, one in three died at the Battle of the Waterfall. The very foundation, the nature of the tribe itself, changed in the aftermath of that battle. No more were they the River Warriors. The women would have to carry the fate of the village alone. They became the Tribe of Women Heroes, my people, and since the massacre at the Sorcerers' hands, we have stood guard, vigilant for their return. We do not trust them, and if they've taken Ranma, neither should you."

The table was quiet as the listeners took in Cologne's tale, but after a moment's contemplation, Akane broke the silence.

"Why?" she asked Cologne. "Why would these Sorcerers take Ranma?"

"I cannot say. I don't understand their motives, their purpose. After the massacre, the Sorcerers shrouded themselves behind a veil of magic. No one has been to their village since. No scout we've sent has ever been sure the village still exists at all. That they ventured from this protection on their own worries us most." Cologne propped up her walking stick. "As of this moment, Nekohanten is closed indefinitely. Shampoo, Mousse, and I will be returning to China in the morning. If you wish to save Ranma, I suggest you accompany us."

Shampoo's teacup tilted precariously. "Great-grandmother! Is Shampoo right to—"

Cologne glared, and a mouthful of Chinese shocked the younger Amazon, putting her in her place. Shampoo sat back, bowing her head, silenced.

"Well," said Ukyō, "is that an invitation?"

"Please. Thanks in part to my time here, I know Japanese martial artists well. Though it is foolish to involve yourselves in this affair, some of you won't resist the temptation to come to Ranma's rescue. Go alone, and our efforts will interfere. You'll encounter our scouting parties in the mountains near Jusenkyō. They may simply inconvenience you, and if that is all, count yourselves lucky, for my people are still at war with the Sorcerers, and if our warriors do as they're taught, they will not 'simply inconvenience' you. They'll draw their bows and impale you with a dozen arrows. _Each._" Cologne sipped her tea. "But, if you'd like to venture into Qinghai without our protection, our support, you may prove a useful distraction to the Sorcerers. After all, I doubt they'll bother with shooting you. Their magic permits much more … creative fates." Cologne tapped on the table, rousing Shampoo. "Come, child. We must pack."

With that, the Amazon contingent departed, and once more the table was quiet. The breeze rustled the windchimes, and around the pond, Kunō chased a dragonfly, flapping against the wind.

#

For some more than others, it took time for the truth to sink in. Ukyō gulped down the rest of her tea and bowed on her way out. Genma blithely assumed Ranma would return unscathed, but the sight of a sharpened katana convinced him to see it through personally—the mother of his child would expect nothing less. Ryōga, too, assured that he'd bring Ranma back. "As much as I may disagree with Ranma at times," he told Akane, "I won't let magicians and sorcerers keep him from home. Don't worry. We'll find Ranma. I promise."

_They_ would find Ranma. _They_ would bring him back, and _she_ shouldn't worry.

"Maybe I want to go, too," said Akane. "I can be ready by morning."

"Go back to China?" said Soun. "Come now, Akane, you've hardly been back two weeks! You have school tomorrow."

"So does Ranma."

"Akane-kun, I think you should stay and regain more of your strength," said Genma.

"Oh?" She raised her eyebrows. "Why do I need to regain my strength, Uncle?"

Genma shot Soun a glance and dumped a glass of water over himself. "I heard a rumor is all!" said a sign.

That was their secret, a truth known only to the witnesses to Saffron's demise and Akane's own rebirth. It was enough that Tendō Soun know Ranma rescued his daughter from the Phoenix. If he found out she'd died, too, he'd never let his little girl go back, and he'd be rightly annoyed with Genma for not mentioning this; hence neither dared reveal the truth. It worked against both of them.

Secrets. They're meant to protect people, yet they force a girl to choose: go where her heart tells her or shield herself from withering stares and condemnation. If others knew the truth of what happened, what she said before the coldest rain fell, no one should forgive her. That day, Akane wandered home, drenched from head to toe, but Ranma was nowhere to be found. It wasn't until the next morning, when neither he nor Kunō appeared at school, when Kodachi claimed her brother ran off with the pigtailed girl to China, did Akane understand. For once, Ranma listened to her. He listened all too well, and when their classmates asked Akane why Ranma'd gone, she answered them with all the truth she could bear.

"He's always tried to be cured," she said. "It's what he wants."

And on this explanation, no one challenged her, not even Ukyō, who met Akane's gaze while the class's attention wandered. Perhaps she felt some fraction of the blame, or maybe it was just another secret standoff—she couldn't reveal what Akane said to Ranma without admitting he rejected her, too.

But Ukyō didn't seem the type to let that bother her. The way she rushed out from Cologne's meeting, Akane assumed only one thing: she was making preparations for the journey. She wouldn't want to be left out again, even if Ranma did tell her off for her role in the wedding disaster. Shampoo was going. Why shouldn't Ukyō?

Why shouldn't Akane?

Under the long shadows of dusk, Akane tied the belt of her gi and jogged into the dojo, sliding the door closed behind her. From the supply room, she dragged out three cinderblocks and stacked them, a perfect column, aligned by edge and corner. Father always told her not to break cinderblocks in the dojo. The dust sticks to the floor, inhibiting traction. You can feel it on the soles of your feet. Better to perform such spectacles outside, where the trace amounts of powder would bother no one. That's what he said, but Father never considered things fully. Outside, people can see you. You don't know who's watching. In the dojo, no one can see you if you can't see them, too. You know where your critics might lurk. The walls of the dojo were cloak and shield for the warrior in training, protecting her until she felt ready to face her enemy.

Even if that enemy was herself.

Akane chopped, shattering the cement. There was a time, not long ago, when breaking these slabs exhilarated her. Whether angry or stressed or just for fun, she'd split the blocks in two, and a surge of pride would ease all her troubles, bringing her peace and calm.

But today, her confidence abandoned her, and the broken cinderblocks yielded only a thin plume of dust, a grim reminder of causality: her hand cracked the cement. She alone scattered this powder on the dojo floor. She had no one else to blame, and she should derive no joy from this act, for she deserved none at all. She was responsible—for breaking the block, for driving Ranma to China, into the hands of Sorcerers that wanted who-knew-what from him. If he came back wounded, if he died in those foreign lands, would she bear the blame? Or, like the the reason for his departure, would she hide it instead and suffer her guilt alone? It wasn't Ranma being a rude, insensitive, stubborn jerk that put him in this mess. Sure, he lied to her, a thoughtless act, but no more thoughtless than lying to protect a surprise party. Maybe every other time it was his fault, but not this time. He'd never doubted her, but she'd doubted him.

"That's not exactly what happened, Akane."

The ghost, the apparition, the figment of her mind—whatever it was, it spoke to her, and its voice was insistent.

"They're right, you know," said the specter. "You shouldn't worry. Worrying ain't helping anything."

Akane swiped at the mirage, but the figure ducked. She always did. Even as a construct of Akane's psyche, Ranma wouldn't insult the them both by letting her strike him, not in the sacred confines of the dojo.

"It's not like you knew I'd run into crazy magicians in China. It's not like you thought I'd take it the way I did."

Sweep, jab, hook. No, it wasn't what she meant, but she should've known what her words would instill in him. She said he wasn't a man. What greater insult is there to a boy cursed to become a girl?

Akane put her focus on exercises, blocking out the voice within her. Just imagining him there, when an ocean divided them, was indulgence enough. She refused temptation, the fantasy that Ranma would forgive her—that he, as both lover and confidant, could somehow absolve her of guilt.

"I'm not one to hold a grudge."

Akane raised an eyebrow.

"Not for long. You know that."

Well, maybe he should start. If, by chance or skill, Ranma escaped his captors, why shouldn't he punish her for her sins? She mocked his pride. She doubted his love. It would be fitting punishment if, in return, he refused to give her any more affection, if instead of playful bickering that sometimes stung and sometimes aroused her heart, he ignored her taunts. He could cut her from him so easily, and her soul would wither, detached, alone.

"I'd never do that to you."

But he _could_ if he wanted to—that was the point—and it was about time he did. That, at least, would make her feel like she did penance for her deeds.

"There ain't nothing I can say that'll make you forgive yourself, is there."

She could no more wash her guilt away than she could make him love her.

"Then there's no point in holding back."

Akane smirked. _If you were really here, you'd only say that if you meant to fight me like you should._

"So I can wipe the floor with you?"

Akane twirled on the tips of her toes. _I'm not a dishrag._

"Sure you are."

Her knee buckled. Flailing, she hobbled away, favoring her weak leg. She braced herself on the wall, wincing.

"You're not on your game in here. This place—it intimidates you. It reminds you that as hard as you try, you're not as good as me, and though I never hit you, it still hurts, doesn't it?"

Gathering strength, she pushed off, bounding in rhythm, a precise sequence of kicks and jumps. _It's stupid for you to just dodge all the time. It's insulting. And it doesn't give me practice being defensive, either._

"The minute I lay more than a pinky finger on you is the minute you have to admit you can't keep up, and that stings worse than any punch."

_I may never be as good as you, Ranma, but I can get closer; I know it! _

"Closer to me?"

A speck of dust (from the blocks she shattered, perhaps? ) slid under her feet. She slipped and hobbled. She could be battling against imagined foes, but through her own clumsiness, her own negligence, she struggled for traction and even footing.

"You'd like to be as good as me. Or Shampoo. Hell, Ucchan can give you a run for your money, too. It was one after another, and you fell further and further behind."

Akane brushed the grit from the soles of her feet. _I don't see what that has to do with anything._

"When we came along, people forgot about you. The guys at school left you alone. They started fantasizing about Shampoo, or me, and gave up on you."

_I never liked the morning pervert patrol._

"No, but you became like them, pining after someone, except they did it from afar. You had to do it when I was right next to you."

_I did _not_ pine._

"I guess that's true. You didn't get all weak and rubbery around me. You fought back. Gods forbid you show some real affection. I might spit it back in your face. Then nothing will protect you."

_I'm not like that._

"You are. How long have you waited, Akane? How long have you known in your heart that you wanted me, yet you said nothing? You made me say it first. Twice. All those months we could've been together, could've been happy, but they're gone now. You can't get them back. You can't get me back; I'm gone, too."

A cold draft sent shivers down Akane's spine. Strange, it was, to have a harsh wind in a closed room.

"All this time, you've been contrary. You hoped someday I might regard us as more than an arranged marriage, that I would actually choose you, but you never did anything about it."

_Shampoo and Ukyō always hounded you. I could never do that. You deserve to have a choice._

"Bullshit! The thought that I might reject you, that I couldn't feel the way you did—it terrified you! And it was better to say nothing and wait than take a chance. You wouldn't open yourself to that threat. Is it any wonder that I didn't either, that I could only tell you over your dying body? We're more alike than you think, Akane. Maybe that's why, when you think to yourself, you think of me, but you still won't expose your heart. Do I have to die to change that?"

"No!"

"But you won't prove it, not even to yourself. You're going to sit here, in this dojo, spinning around like you're a martial artist, but you're not. You won't tell anyone what's eating you. You're closed off, barricaded by stone walls, and it'll take more love than I can ever give to break them. As long as you hide, you're something I can never truly love because you won't love me back. Not with your whole heart, not even with part of it. You're too afraid to give even an inch. Do you know what that makes you?"

Trembling, Akane shoved the dojo door aside, dashing under the covered path. Ranma's voice was too strong in there; the walls spoke to her, for they knew his wisdom, his skill, his fidelity to her. They shouted these truths straight to her mind, and cold reality cut her to the bone.

"You're less than human, Akane." The voice followed her, all the same, for she carried it with her to her room. "You have flesh and skin and nerve, but you have no soul! You're a parasite, leeching on me, taking and taking until there's nothing left."

She staggered into her room, slamming the door behind her, but on her desk, a mirror angled toward her face. The glare of the setting sun burned away all façades, all pretenses of innocence and well-meaning. With the fire of dusk upon her, Akane picked up the silver mirror and saw herself for who she really was.

"You're a monster."

Crack. A line streaked across the surface. Akane ran her finger down the break, the jagged path that marred her reflection, her horrified face. The edge tore at her skin, and a stream of red followed the crack, filling the gaps. Though tears diluted the flow of blood, the stains on the mirror—on her soul itself—lingered, all through the night.

#

"Wake up, Akane."

Morning. The hour before first light. Lying on her side, Akane faced the wall, rubbing her cut fingers together.

"I was hard on you," said the ghost, the specter. "Or, I guess you're hard on yourself."

She closed her eyes. _I deserved it._

"Yeah, you do. And you don't. Life's funny like that."

Akane nodded once. She pulled the covers taut.

"Come on. Get up."

_Don't want to._

"Now you're just being childish."

_Maybe so. I've been doing that a lot with you._

"Is that the way you like it? Is that how you want things to stay?"

_No._

"Then you know what you need to do."

Her eyes snapped open. She kicked off the blankets and sat up, on the edge of the bed, but the image of Ranma was nowhere to be found.

_No, of course not. He's always been with me._ She held her hand to her breast. _In here._

The first glimmers of sun touched the clouds, casting the sky in wispy, golden hues.

_He's always been strong for me. I can't move mountains or jump across rooftops, but you're right, Ranma. I know exactly what I need to do._

Downstairs, Saotome Genma and Hibiki Ryōga inspected their belongings—sleeping bags, cookware, a compass, and maps (_especially_ maps)—a final checklist for the road ahead. But to the household's surprise, the youngest daughter descended the steps to the dining room. She heaved a backpack over her shoulder and dangled a pair of boots by the laces. And to the baffled, curious family and guests in attendance, she told them what she should've said ten days before.

"I'm the one who made Ranma go," said Akane. "I told him he wasn't a man. I asked him to love me…"

She shuddered, looking to the floor, but her voice continued, strong and focused.

"Now it's my turn," she said. "I have to prove I love him back."

* * *

**Next:** In Ōsaka, culinary capital of Japan, Ukyō revisits old memories of why she chased after Ranma—memories she must put to rest if she's to join the expedition to China. **Journey to Jusenkyō Part II - Night Life of the Dōtonbori - Coming April 23, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	14. Journey II: Night Life of the Dotonbori

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** If Ukyō's going to go all the way to China after Ranma, she's going to need some help keeping her restaurant afloat. The only person she can turn to she hasn't seen in ten long years.

* * *

**Night Life of the Dōtonbori**

_Chapter Three, Act Two_

There are some contemporary observers who say rail is dead. They see the old infrastructure of iron tracks and heavy rolling cars as relics of ancient technologies, archaic holdovers from a time long since past. In truth, rail is a means of connecting extremes: in centuries before, locomotives linked the populous American East with its western frontier. In modern times, where cities are dense yet close together, trains are an economical means of travel, especially on a string of islands off the coast of Asia.

That's why, when Kuonji Ukyō needed to make a trip, she booked two tickets on the _Shinkansen_, the Japanese bullet train, and closed her shop for the afternoon.

"Are you sure you want me along?" asked Konatsu, fidgeting in his seat.

"It's all right," said Ukyō, staring through her window into the black of night. "No offense, but the last time you were in charge, it cost more than shutting the door."

Konatsu sighed.

"But hey, it's your first ride on the bullet train. Mine too, actually. That has to count for something, right?"

He beamed, nodding.

"Why don't you pick up something to eat?" asked Ukyō. "There's a vending machine in the back, yeah?"

"Would you like anything in particular?"

"Something chocolate, perhaps." She handed him a small coin purse. "Don't go overboard, now."

Konatsu bowed, taking off down the center aisle.

And scattering coins all over the traincar as he ran.

"Ah, forgive me, Ukyō-sama!"

"It's okay; just do what you can." Ukyō turned over, resting her head on the window. _Damn. I shouldn't have given him the whole purse. That's a thousand yen! _ She sighed. _Then again, it's nothing compared to these tickets … or how much I'll lose by closing down and going to China._

A lamppost streaked across the night, speeding by at almost three hundred kilometers per hour, but unlike the aircraft cabin the traincar resembled, the windows here showed shadows and silhouettes of the countryside, not clouds below. Nevertheless, the rows of cushioned seats reminded Ukyō that she wasn't on a vacation across Japan—she had a destination, a place to be. The night shrouded that place in darkness, but she felt it coming. Every bump on the rails, every bank of the track told her it wouldn't be long, but what awaited her in the night she couldn't say, nor did she understand what she'd left. At dawn, she would leave for China; she'd sworn as much when she left the Tendō home. Too much happened behind her back the last time Ranma went to Jusenkyō. He came back different, changed.

Haunted.

There are some things you never forget, whether it be the sight of your father's cart riding into the sunset, leaving without you, or the feel of cold, damp skin against your own, the touch of another human who isn't alive to share your pain.

Or so she'd heard from the grapevine. As the days had passed, the full story of Ranma's bravery trickled down to her, and true enough, Ranma had told no lie, engaged in no deception: the heat of the Dragon Tap boiled Akane until she was but a doll, and only Ranma's heroics had saved her. Maybe Akane didn't really die at Jusendō, but that didn't matter—he _believed_ she did, and whether he meant to choose one girl over the others, he made his preference clear, either way.

"Ukyō-sama?"

At the prod of a candy bar, Ukyō twitched. Konatsu handed her the flat slab of chocolate, and Ukyō gratefully peeled back the wrapper, breaking off a piece. "Thanks."

Konatsu plopped in his seat. He tore open a bag of gummy worms and marveled at their varied colors and peculiar stretchiness. Folding one end over the other, he tied the gummy worm in a knot and bit off the excess.

_Time is like that,_ thought Ukyō. _Future and past—they're bound together. They both lead to the same place. Behind me is my shop in Nerima, my time with Ranchan, but if you go ever further there's more. I trained on the cliffs by the bay. I worked day and night to win back my honor or, if nothing else, Father's cart. And now what's behind me is in front of me, too. Anywhere I go, I come back to that._

The train rounded a bend, and through the window, the first glimmers of a metropolis pierced the night.

"Hello, Father," she said to the glass. "Little Ucchan's come back to see you now."

#

At half past seven, the train ground to a halt, idling in a tube of metal and glass. Fluorescent lights cast the terminal in a pale glow with overlapping shadows. This was Shin-Ōsaka Station, the end and beginning of the Tōkaidō rail line, the gateway to the metropolis of Kōbe, cosmopolitan port; to Kyōto, the ancient capital of Japan; and to Ōsaka itself, an economic powerhouse second only to Tōkyō in size and prosperity. Where Kyōto was the heart of Japanese tradition, Ōsaka housed its culinary soul. "Try kimonos 'til you drop in Kyōto," went a saying, "and eat 'til you drop in Ōsaka."

From the train station, Konatsu and Ukyō went underground, heading south to the famous Dōtonbori, a place of neon signs and bustling crowds. Even on a Sunday night, locals and tourists—both foreign and domestic—strolled the length of the boulevard. Above the street, many and varied displays lured the unsuspecting visitor to their sponsors' stores. A sprinter raced on a digital track, coasting to the sweet smell of fresh caramel. Down the road, a mechanical crab wriggled its legs and closed its pincers, as if the aroma of hot butter sent shivers down its shell.

"It was always my father's dream to have a restaurant here," said Ukyō, breathing in the mix of scents. "He said he'd rather have one shop on this street than a hundred shops in all Japan. This place is the capital of Japanese cuisine, you know. Father would settle for nothing less."

"You know this place quite well, don't you?" said Konatsu.

Ukyō pulled out a handful of pamphlets, brochures, maps of the Ōsaka underground. "Not really. I've only heard stories. Father and I traveled a lot when I was young, and we never had the time or money to head into the big city."

"It'd be nice to stay a while."

"It would be, wouldn't it?" Ukyō gazed skyward, admiring the great variety of colors, the vivid energy of the Dōtonbori and the people who walked, cooked, and ate there.

But the invigorating aroma was brief and fleeting; a gust enveloped those scents and carried them over the canal, where they could influence Ukyō no more.

"Come along, Konatsu," she said. "We don't have time for a leisurely stroll. If we're not back by midnight, our return tickets are worthless."

"You're really intent on going to China, aren't you."

"I won't leave Ranchan to tribal voodoo people. He does enough by himself; he deserves some help for a change."

"I suppose."

Ukyō stopped. "Wouldn't you do the same?" she asked. "For someone you love?"

Konatsu turned away, jittering, flustered. "Of course! I wouldn't think of anything else."

"You can be quite strange sometimes, Konatsu." She looked him over from head to toe. "Hm, maybe more than just sometimes."

Fidgeting still, Konatsu's gaze wandered. "Say." He gestured across the street. "Isn't that…?" He pointed out a cloth awning, a black fabric with bold, white characters. It was a sign, and it shouted the name of this restaurant for all the world to hear.

"Okonomiyaki Kuonji's," read the sign.

"So it is," said Ukyō, pocketing her pamphlets. "Father's dream—he made it reality."

Ukyō and Konatsu jogged across the street, cutting past a line of customers that trailed out the door. Inside, batter sizzled and popped over three sets of griddles. Guests fought for stools, and the chefs, performers in their own right, twirled their spatulas with flair and style.

_Just like a good okonomiyaki chef should._

"Hey!" The lead chef parted the crowd with his spatula. "You there!"

"Me?" said Ukyō.

"You're the boss's daughter, aren't you? He's been waiting for you."

Ukyō looked about, but the dim lighting hid the rest of the room in muddled, formless shadow. "Where?"

"Upstairs, of course!" The lead chef jerked his head toward a faint, hidden stairwell in the corner. "He's doing a show right now!"

"A show?" said Konatsu.

Wasting no time, Ukyō dragged Konatsu forward, weaving between the grills. They climbed the stairs to the upper floor—a smaller, cozy dining area with a balcony overhanging the sidewalk. In the center, a bearded man wielded dual spatulas over his griddle. Under a white spotlight, he spun and juggled three okonomiyaki and caught them on separate plates, to the cheers and applause of his patrons.

"Amazing!" said Konatsu.

"Well, looks like I could still learn a trick or two from the old man," said Ukyō. "Interesting."

A bus boy wiped down an empty table, and Ukyō and Konatsu took seats. Guests at the griddle blocked the view of the show, but on occasion, a disc of batter and sauce soared above the crowd.

"I learned everything I know from him," said Ukyō. "It's good to see he's still got it."

"You both seem quite theatrical," said Konatsu.

"If we didn't want to be theatrical, we wouldn't cook okonomiyaki. We'd stay in the kitchen and do our work unseen. Maybe that works for some people, but not for me. I want people to see how I'm working at it. It's an effort. An okonomiyaki doesn't pop out like instant ramen from a microwave. If there's no flair, there's no point."

At center stage, Ukyō's father tossed peppers and shrimp in the air, catching them one-handed on a plate of dough. He presented the finished product to a hungry customer amidst cheers and applause.

"Thank you, thank you," he said. "You honor me with your praise. As much as I'd like to stay and share my passion for okonomiyaki with you further, I must turn over duties to my deputy chef, Nakamura, who will gladly serve you. Thank you again for dining at Kuonji's Okonomiyaki."

To another burst of applause, Kuonji wiped his hands on a cloth and bowed before his replacement. Leaving the griddle, he broke through the crowd of dinner guests and made his way to the table in the corner, where Ukyō and Konatsu sat.

"So, my daughter," he said. "You return to me at last."

Ukyō pursed her lips, rising. "Father, this is Konatsu, my assistant," she said. "Konatsu…"

SLAP! Kuonji's head spun, tilting at an angle.

"This is my deadbeat father," said Ukyō. "Really, Father. Did you think I'd be happy that you _sold_ me to a no-good charlatan like Saotome Genma?"

Kuonji rubbed his cheek. "I had reasons for that."

"Do tell. I'm listening. Konatsu, perhaps you can help Nakamura-san with his duties? After all, we're keeping Father from his work."

Konatsu offered his seat to the elder Kuonji and back-flipped over the crowd, landing squarely in the cooking area.

The guests, and the chief chef, were somewhat amazed.

"Oh, don't mind him," said Ukyō. "The boy can be a showoff at times and not even realize it."

Kuonji frowned. "That's a boy?"

"You shouldn't be surprised." Ukyō fished her pockets, laying out a series of envelopes, all addressed to her. "You know I went to a boys' school. Is the reverse so shocking?"

"I'd hoped you'd put that nonsense behind you."

"Strange things always happen around Ranma. It can't be helped."

"I see. Is that why you stay with him?"

Ukyō looked away. "No."

"Well, forgive me if I'm curious," said Kuonji. "You have my letters. I don't remember getting any in return."

"What do you expect, Father? He still owes me. He owes both of us."

"And what would you accept in return?"

She rubbed her ring finger. "A nice diamond would be a start. Probably too much to ask, but a start."

"I still have business friends in Nerima. I've heard a lot about the Saotome boy since he moved there."

"You knew? You knew he was there before I—"

"I hardly knew how to contact you."

"But if you could?"

"I wouldn't have told you."

Ukyō scoffed. "So, this is how you try to erase a mistake? You'd ignore how they shamed us?"

"It was as much my mistake for putting trust in Saotome Genma. I should've realized if he would break one engagement promise, he wouldn't balk at breaking another."

"Like I said—they owe us."

"They owe us a cart."

"A cart? Is that all you can think about? A cart won't make up for what people will say, what rumors they spread. Maybe you'll try to forget, but I can't. I trained for ten years to pay Ranchan back for their crime. I can't get that time back!"

"So marry him."

Ukyō blinked. "Excuse me?"

"If only marriage will satisfy you, why don't you marry him? You found him, after all this time. What's the problem?"

"I thought you had 'friends' in Nerima…"

"I don't hear everything."

Ukyō opened her mouth to respond, but a pair of plates interrupted her. "What's this?"

"Two house specials," said the waiter, setting the okonomiyaki before them. "Shrimp and cheese, seaweed, tuna…"

She met her father's gaze. "It's my favorite."

"That's why it's the special."

Ukyō folded her arms and fumed. "I can cook it myself, you know. Or is this hot plate on the table just for show?"

"Have to have a few chefs around to feed the Americans. And you shouldn't have to cook for yourself after such a trip."

"Which you forced me to take."

Kuonji broke off a piece of his dinner, savoring the bite. "My daughter has been away from me for a decade, and when I finally manage to track her down, I find that she refuses to come home because she's still chasing the boy who wronged her, a boy who refuses to marry her."

"That's not how it is."

"Then how is it? You've been in Tōkyō how many months now?"

"Time doesn't matter to love, Father."

"So you've made him love you, then?"

Ukyō choked on a the head of a shrimp. "I don't hate him anymore if that's what you're saying. Honestly, that was silly. We were five. You can't make realistic decisions about your life when you're five."

"Or when you're sixteen."

"Just what do you mean to say, Father? Spit it out, so I can catch my train and go home."

"So you can go to China, following the Saotome boy."

"That's right."

"But you don't have the money for that."

Ukyō growled. "No."

"After I gave our cart to Saotome, I had little of my own, too. When you ran off, I spent what I had searching for you, but that didn't last long. Soon I was stranded. I took a job as an assistant chef—at a buffet, of all things. I cut vegetables. I washed fruit. Only when the head chef was ill did I have a chance to show what I could do, and I did. Four years I labored for next to nothing. Three years I spent as head chef of that buffet in Kōbe, but even that wasn't enough. It wasn't my passion. It wasn't my dream. I made friends with a customer there, one who happened to strike it rich. He bankrolled this restaurant in gratitude for all the meals I provided when he was just a working man. I've still yet to repay him in full. Money, daughter, does not come cheaply. I know you have only the shop you rent every month and a few sparse possessions. I heard you'd been ill; that can't have been good for business. I don't want anything material from you. All I wanted was to see my daughter again. Is that so much to ask?"

"No, Father." Ukyō looked down, into her lap. "It isn't."

"I can staff your restaurant while you're out of town—I have apprentices and new talent that would jump at the chance—but I have to ask: why do you pursue the Saotome boy, even now, ten years later?"

"Our honor demands it."

Kuonji laughed bitterly. "Our honor has cost you your childhood, cost _me_…" He shook his head, laying a spatula down. "It cost me my chance to be a father." He met Ukyō's gaze. "Does he love you?"

"He could. He doesn't yet."

"Does he favor someone else? The Tendō girl he was promised to?"

Ukyō turned away, staring at the wall. "He might."

"Then why—"

"It doesn't matter if he loves me right this second," said Ukyō. "I've not yet begun to fight for his heart. Akane-chan will see."

Her father sighed. "So that's how it is, then. You're going to fight and see who triumphs."

"You're afraid I'll lose?"

"I'm afraid you'll win." He attacked his meal with the spatula, breaking off another piece. "Is that all? You're going after him because you still have to chase his heart?"

"Well, no," said Ukyō. "It's not the only reason. He's in trouble. He's my friend."

"Your friend?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Is he your friend or isn't he? Do you have his interests at heart or yours? Don't tell me you're friends as an excuse to chase him."

"It's the truth! And I'll go to China to save him whether he loves me or not!"

The elder Kuonji tapped his spatula on the plate, pondering. "Well then, let us speak of this no further."

"Father!"

"You have a spare key to your shop with you? I'll send my staff over first thing in the morning."

Ukyō blinked. "Really?"

"I'll pay the rent while you're away, perhaps make a little extra pocket money on the side, who knows. I won't stop you from going to the aid of a friend. Just promise me something, will you?"

"Of course."

"Don't let it be ten years before we see each other again."

"I'll try, Father," said Ukyō, nodding slightly.

"Good. Now finish your food."

Ukyō cracked an amused smile. "Yes, Father."

Crash! A bottle of _sake_ shattered on the floor, and three copies of Konatsu scrambled to gather the jagged shards, sweeping them into a dustpan.

"And tell me," said Kuonji, "how did you meet this 'boy' you call an assistant, anyway?"

#

A quarter to nine. Ukyō rested her head on the cold window, and Konatsu cuddled under three woolen blankets, sleeping. The bullet train raced through the night once more, leaving the lights of the metropolis behind.

_Ranchan and Father—they both wanted promises._ Ukyō scrunched her brow. _Promises I don't know I can keep._

"If you ever hurt her again," Ranma had said, "if you ever stand by while she's in danger, then you've made your choice. Do either, and you're not my friend anymore, certainly not my fiancée. Promise me you won't do that."

She wavered.

"Promise me!"

Both of them, so insistent, so demanding. They asked like their promises were easy, but they weren't. Akane would surely go to China in the morning. Ranma couldn't have foreseen this. He couldn't expect her to watch over Akane like a guardian angel while they ventured into a war zone.

_But promises shouldn't be broken because of something you didn't consider._

Her father was no different. All through dinner, his questions concealed a real purpose; he held back what he really felt, but he made it clear enough. "Stop chasing that boy," he meant to say. "Don't give up any more of your life on him." How selfish. How easily he dismissed their shame. He only wanted his daughter back; he cared nothing for consequences.

Maybe he was right. What if no amount of guilt or seduction would turn Ranma's eye her way? As long as Akane was around…

_No._ She shut the window shade, blocking out the night and the lampposts that streamed by. _I don't need to do like Shampoo. I can win him fair and square._

She turned a knob on her watch, and the red alarm hand spun to 23:45. That's when the train would return to Tōkyō. If she'd get only five hours of sleep after that, better to make use of this time now, on a cold, inhospitable train, speeding through the night.

_I can make him love me,_ she told herself. _Only then can I go back to Father. Only then will my heart be home._

* * *

**Next:** The girls prepare for the trek to China, but machinations among the Amazons conspire to keep Shampoo from reclaiming her honor or her home. **Journey to Jusenkyō Part III - The Amazon Charter - Coming April 30, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	15. Journey III: The Amazon Charter

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** For Shampoo, coming home doesn't mean being home at heart. Just what is her place in the world without Ranma, without the honor she'll lose if she can't save him?

* * *

**The Amazon Charter**

_Chapter Three, Act Three_

"Shampoo?"

Tiny Cologne hopped forward, clinging to her walking stick. The light of a candle warded off the darkness. The flame cast a shallow gradient of warmth into the room, revealing the upright figure of a young woman.

"Oh, so you're awake after all."

A nod. "Shampoo no sleep well tonight."

"I think we can dispense with the Japanese, child—not that immersion in the culture has done much for your grammar." Cologne flipped a light switch; harsh, fluorescent light flooded the room. She blinked, wiping her eyes.

And shuddered.

"Something is wrong?" asked Shampoo.

"When you said you didn't sleep well, I took that to mean you'd still slept _some_, child."

"Pardon?"

"Your eyes, your hair—no, this will not do," said Cologne. "I'll make some brown-weed tea, then. A few sips on the flight should let you sleep even through a tornado."

"Great-grandmother?"

"Yes?"

"Would you make a whole thermos to take with us?"

Cologne frowned. "If you like."

Shampoo rubbed her eyes, stretching. "Thank you."

"Are you well, child?"

A nod.

"We leave for home in half an hour," said Cologne. "You won't loiter, yes?"

Another nod.

"Very good then." The matriarch hopped to the door, and with one more glance over her shoulder, Cologne took her leave.

Shampoo's eyes drifted shut. _Leave for home._ The words echoed in her mind. _That's right. We go home without Ranma._

She kicked off her covers and looked out the window, but the black of night revealed nothing. With the lights blazing in the room, the window showed only her reflection: bleak, weary eyes; hair tangled and unkempt; skin shining, glossy with oil.

How fitting. She knew not the home she'd return to this day. She couldn't recognize her reflection, the part of her that others see. In the end, that place would be alien to her. Alien like the country and people around her.

Alien like the face in the window.

#

"A high-pressure polar airmass has swept over Hokkaidō and Honshū this morning, so expect highs around 3 degrees, falling to 10 below overnight…"

The television was alien. It may not be so strange as to mystify—no warrior of the tribe would call it magic or voodoo, for they knew the real thing—but in the village of Women Heroes, such a luxury would be out of place. What reason did they have to let every child know the pulse of the world? That's not to say they prided themselves on isolation, on ignorance, but traveling among outsiders, learning their ways—such matters couldn't be entrusted to a box with a pale blue glow.

"Skies should be clear for most of the morning, with only a light northerly wind, but clouds will start rolling in during the late afternoon…"

Toothpaste was alien—at least, the squishy tubes of thick goo were. Toothpaste back home was different. From a base of crushed bark and charcoal, ground flowers made the mixture palatable, and powdered pig bones provided the abrasiveness needed to scrub and clean. From the spine of the slain animal, each child in the village carved their own toothbrush, with strands of hair forming the bristles. Simple, economical reminders of ancient traditions—in this way, the tribal people of China had cleaned their teeth for over fifteen hundred years.

Shampoo squeezed a tube between her fingers, spreading the paste over nylon fibers. A cheap piece of plastic. That's all it was. A small stick of red polymer, bought for a hundred yen in a convenience store. If machines alone didn't make this toothbrush, that'd be a great surprise. Human hands did so little work in this "industrialized" world. Even cooking noodles for Nekohanten relied on the labor of machines. Machines assembled the stove, melted and shaped the steel for cookware. They harvested grain from the fields and cut it into neat, uniform bundles.

Without their machines, these people would be nothing.

"Do not think our ways so superior, child," Cologne had said once. "All people build their villages on tradition. The industrial world didn't make bulldozers and aeroplanes on overnight whims. The Japanese here took much, learned much, from others. They benefited from partnership with a people who were once their enemy. You can see how history is fluid, how their old, traditional buildings and customs merged with the new. You can say the old is better or right, but in the end, only time will judge our way of life. Believe me—I know. Even without the Sorcerer War, the village you grew up in isn't mine, and the village your grandchildren grow up in won't be the one you've known. Such is the way of things."

Perhaps that was the truth, the wisdom of a century of living, but Shampoo didn't have to like it.

Under the first glimmers of sun, the Amazon contingent stuffed their bags in the trunk of a taxi. Soon, this country would be behind Shampoo, but that wouldn't rid her of its strangeness, its alien smell—the fumes of burnt petroleum, the noxious odor of fresh paint. These things would stay with her, for she carried the memories in her mind and heart. How she stormed over land and sea to kill the girl who shamed her. How she met the man whom law demanded she marry. How she learned that Ranma was one person, boy and girl at the same time.

How the boy she loved threatened her life to her face. How that boy squeezed and twisted her wrist, leaving his mark on her for days.

Eyes closed, Shampoo unwound a strip of medical tape and wrapped it over her wrist. She needn't see the wound to know it was there. She felt it, on her skin, in her heart.

The taxi motored through empty streets. It followed signs whose words Shampoo couldn't decipher, but she knew the image depicted on them: a sleek, metal bird with wide wings. Even their language was alien. Sometimes she recognized their symbols—common nouns like _sun_ or _moon_, _earth_ or _star_—but there any similarities ended. A world inscrutable dwarfed her, dripping in gibberish.

"It's really not that difficult once you put the time into it," said a voice. "I've only put in six months of serious study, and I've learned quite a few of the kanji not shared with modern—"

"Mousse?"

"Yes, Shampoo?"

"Shut up now."

Wisely, he silenced himself, an act for which Shampoo buried any gratitude. Mousse was a distraction. If she'd had it her way, he'd have stayed behind, but nay, the matriarch insisted. "As of this moment," Cologne had said, "we are warriors with a mission. If indeed the Sorcerers walk the grounds of our homeland, our time in Japan must come to an end. Tomorrow, we fly back to the village and inform the Council of Elders of this turn. They will expect us, so we must not fail." She looked to Shampoo. "Nor should we sully our family name in returning."

From anyone else in the family, that could mean a lot of things. "Don't steal grain from the village store," perhaps. "Return the hoe you borrowed from our neighbor by dusk." Simple things that, put together, pained one's house as honorable and trustworthy … or deceitful, lazy, and scheming. Coming from Great-grandmother, however, it could only mean one thing:

_You must own up to shame._

At half past seven, the taxi pulled up to the international terminal of Haneda Airport, meeting the rest of the party. Some of them Shampoo ignored—Genma, Ryōga, Konatsu. They came to save a son, a rival, a new friend. Such motives didn't threaten Shampoo. Not like the others. No, to the others, she paid much attention.

Ukyō. She sat, her legs dangling off the side of a metal bench, battle spatula in arm's reach. Competition. History. History with Ranma. Even if that past was brief, he looked upon her fondly. He called her a friend.

Akane. She stood, arms folded, shivering in the morning breeze. She was the one he wanted. He shattered a mountain to save her. He cried over her limp body, and why? What pleasures of the flesh could she offer that Shampoo couldn't? What affections did she show that Shampoo hadn't a thousand times before? She couldn't fight alongside him, she didn't know how to please him. Why did she, of the three of them, win his heart?

"Good," said Cologne, hopping onto the curb. "A decent party this is, one fit for the journey ahead. I hope you're all prepared."

"Of course we're prepared!" said Ukyō. "Honestly, you're the people who said to be here at dawn. If anything, _you've_ kept _us_ waiting. I had half a mind to go to China myself!"

"And I imagine you'd tell the customs agent you came to save your magically cursed fiancée from abduction at the hands of ki-wielding sorcerers?"

Ukyō folded her arms, frowning.

"It's not like we haven't been to China before," said Ryōga.

"Indeed," said Cologne, "but time is too short for slower methods over water, whether they be sailing or swimming. You all have money for tickets, yes?"

The group of five stared blankly. Akane and Ryōga looked to Genma, who out-turned his pockets. "I don't suppose three thousand yen is enough, is it?"

Cologne sighed. "I expected as much. Well then, consider yourselves fortunate. The charter has already been paid for. Come along."

With that, the Jusenkyō party headed into the terminal, following Cologne's lead.

"I didn't realize Nekohanten made so much money," said Akane. "A charter flight to Jusenkyō?"

"Is not restaurant money," said Shampoo. "Amazons have much influence. Chinese government pay for flight."

"Not just a flight." Cologne offered her documents to the clerk at the ticket counter. "Travel visas, expedited passage—all courtesy of our friends in the higher levels of the PRC. The People's Liberation Army holds joint exercises every three months at our village. They consider it a special training regimen for their elite forces. In thanks for our hospitality and teaching of our arts, my people have relative freedom to move about mainland China and abroad. It is also the only reason a three-million-man army does not descend on the Jusenkyō Basin and assert control over its indigenous peoples. Thankfully, the PRC both fears and respects our ways, enough to use them for their own forces and to leave us largely in peace."

"Wait a minute," said Ryōga. "You mean to tell me all the time we wasted all that time going to Jusenkyō by boat to save Shampoo, when we could've taken a plane and been there in two or three nights?"

"How long did it take?"

"Thirteen days!" said Mousse. "Four days over sea, three upriver to Yibin, and six days over land! Thirteen days Shampoo spent under the mind control of those bird-men! And do you know how cramped it was in that riverboat? With the smell of wet panda fur choking the air?"

"There should've been plenty of fresh air outside," said Cologne. "Why not take a swim in the river, duck boy?"

"And get netted for supper-time stew, you wrinkly old ragamuffin?"

Bonk! "Do you even know what a ragamuffin is?"

As the party moved on toward security, Akane fell into step alongside Ukyō. "I don't understand," she said, peering across to Shampoo. "Why would your people make Ranma and the others go by river if they could call in this favor?"

Shampoo glared, but with Great-grandmother beside her, she held her tongue. "Is simple. Elders only ask favor for what threaten tribe, not one person."

"But you're part of the tribe, aren't you?"

The Amazon shook her head, avoiding Akane's gaze. "No. Shampoo not part of tribe while Kiss of Marriage unfulfilled."

She slung her bag over her shoulder, breezing past.

"Shampoo not important."

#

The blast of a jet engine rattled the windows, booming into the cabin. Perhaps, among these "civilized" Japanese people, some would compare this boom to the roar of a tiger, but having hunted tigers before, Shampoo knew well—this was no sound of nature made. More like a controlled explosion, a bundle of fireworks set off for New Year's Day. If any animal made this sound, Shampoo would kill it, if only to end its misery.

It wasn't Shampoo's first time on a jet airliner, but she still found the experience of takeoff unsettling. When the nose turned upward and the floor pushed back in a sickening tilt, Shampoo clutched the paper bag in front of her, just in case. Once the plane reached cruising altitude, however, she relaxed. Indeed, she peered out the window, marveling at the clouds that raced by. Maybe this was why people enjoyed flying, why these foreign people relished something so unnatural.

Or maybe it was for a perspective of the world below. Under wing, the ground scooted past. Roads cut across forest and grass, small gray lines in an otherwise primitive landscape. Still, despite this sparseness, the lines melded together, colliding, merging. They formed a dense network of highways and side-streets. Metalwork grew between the roads, reflecting the dawn, the morning sun. Yet it was all so small. All of it she blocked out with her thumb on the window, as if a child built these cities from iron dust. Breathe hard on them, and the towns crumble away.

It's a wonder humanity thinks itself so large and important. If only we could see the truth—the world is a god's playground. When he cries, the heavens open. When he throws a tantrum, the earth shakes and erupts, yet we think ourselves worthy to build upon his sandbox. We call our god's rebukes great forces of nature; we accept that we have no control, yet we build anyway. From cave dwellings to huts to skyscrapers, we build. We eat, we breathe, we sleep. We make children, and we dream. We think ourselves so special.

But we all dream, and though our dreams may vary, from candy canes to money to intimate moments on a tropical beach, we aren't unique. We're all the same, yet we cherish our dreams. We hold them close to our hearts. To shatter a dream is to make us nothing.

Our dreams are so small.

With Tōkyō twenty minutes behind, the islands of Japan slid past the tail of the plane. Open ocean sparkled, calm and soothing. And plain. Empty, desolate. Teeming with life, perhaps, but no intelligence, no fantasies, no dreams. The animals—sharks, whales, dolphins—they got along fine without dreams. A stag rejected goes on to find another mate. The animals care nothing for honor or passion, even the ones that bond for life. This indifference spares them the pain of unrequited love, for they never expected to find love at all. They shrug off any loss of face. They don't even know what honor is. The animals have it easy; we humans don't. We're prone to silly inclinations and fantasies. We don't know what's good for ourselves.

That's what Great-grandmother said, anyway, when Shampoo admitted her failure to kill Ranma, the "girl" who defeated her. A strong warrior she'd met, a handsome man who seemed, in her eyes, capable of affection, vulnerable to her charms, yet this boy was really a girl at heart, and now Shampoo knew not what to do.

"Fool of a child!" Cologne had said. "The magic waters of the thousand springs reveal the true body when hot! That was a boy, a boy you must now make your husband."

So much the better, then! A chance to marry a strong and skilled outsider, one as young as her, whom she could show free affection and love.

"Love, you say! You should disabuse yourself of such thoughts. Love in marriage is a rare thing. Treasure it if you're so fortunate, but to demand it? From a stranger? You only lay the foundation for disappointment; trust me on this matter, for I know it myself. Your great-grandfather and I endured many years of matrimony. At first, I set out to mold him into a good husband, to make him desire me the way I thought he should. Not to say I was undesirable, but that's another story. Over time, I learned to accept him for who he was, and we learned to appreciate one other. Rest his soul, I still miss his counsel. He grew to be my closest friend, but though I bore his children, he was not my lover." Cologne grinned, winking. "There were others for that."

Shampoo scraped her tongue clean for three straight days after that. Even then, the foul taste wouldn't rinse out…

But the point still stood, like a sickly tree infested with beetles, lacking the good sense to die. For months she'd sought Ranma's heart, showed him her body, heaped gifts and food upon him, yet the love she wanted wasn't there. Respect? Sometimes. Friendship? Perhaps. She may well have had both of those things until she crossed him, but those feelings were empty. They did nothing to sate a bottomless heart, for _that girl_ had stolen his love.

And no one saw fit to change that. Not Great-grandmother: she'd helped for a time, but she never understood a girl's yearning—at least, not anymore. Mousse, for all his "love" and "devotion," secretly beamed with joy to see Ranma choose another, and the warriors of the tribe wouldn't care that she tried. Was she his wife, or wasn't she? Did she bear his children, or didn't she? Had she satisfied the laws of the village, the need for warriors of strong and varied blood? Or had she forgotten her duty, chasing a foreign boy chosen by law but pursued to satisfy her lonely soul?

Maybe Great-grandmother had been right all along. At least if she'd never loved Ranma, she'd only have to face shame, but she _did_ love him. She felt not only the weight of dishonor, pressing her to the ground, but the throbbing ache of rejection. To think how _that girl_ would enjoy his caress, how she'd make little noises and blush at his slightest touch…

Shampoo crushed an aluminum can in her fist.

"Miss?" A flight attendant passed the row, pushing a cart with a garbage bag. "Are you finished?"

She handed the attendant the crumpled hulk of thin metal. So much for mid-flight refreshments.

"Something troubles you?" asked Mousse.

"No."

He eyed her hand, which opened and closed rhythmically. "Are you sure?"

A nod. "I'm only thirsty still."

"Really? I'll get you another drink then."

"No!" Shampoo pointed to her bag. "Great-grandmother made tea, but I don't know if it's any good."

Mousse fished out the thermos and squinted, eying the bottle. "What are you suggesting?"

"Perhaps you'd try it for me?"

"And if it's good, you'll have some too?"

A nod.

"But Shampoo…" His eyes lit up. "That's like an indirect kiss!"

"Is it?"

Hastily, Mousse unscrewed the cap and gulped down the drink, gasping for breath when he finished.

"Isn't that hot?"

"Not at all; it's quite delicious. It's just like…" His eyes drooped. "Brown-weed tea."

Shampoo pulled the thermos and cap from his hands, and Mousse's head crashed into the tray table. Amidst sudden snores, the rest of the plane watched looked up from their books and magazines, interest piqued.

"I thought I said that tea was for you!" said Cologne, shaking her head with disdain.

"Dumb Mousse talks too much."

"But how much did he have? We land in Shanghai in less than an hour!"

She rattled the thermos, but the sloshing within was light and inconsequential. "Not very smart, either," she said. "If he wanted an 'indirect kiss' so badly, he should've left some for me."

Cologne sighed, leaning back, out of sight.

And with the hum of the engines a faint background, Shampoo returned to her musings, free from Mousse's interruptions, yet clarity of thought escaped her. Even from the height of the tallest mountains, the water below was but a fraction of the Earth's whole. How could anyone see it truly when their eyes showed them only a small slice of humanity? That was the curse of mankind, more terrible than any magic of water born—we don't see the world for what it is, save for the tiny piece we occupy. We deceive ourselves; we ignore what lies outside our spheres of daily life.

At least, until we're forced to venture out and face the things that haunt us.

#

After a fashion, the party landed in Shanghai, and as Cologne had feared, Mousse dozed even after the plane touched down. Bearing the burden for her deception, Shampoo carried him through the airport, and luckily, the Amazons' pull with the Chinese government precluded any questions about where they were going or why one among them could sleep so soundly before their next flight.

The second leg of the journey brought the group to Yushu, a town in the southwestern corner of Qinghai—and, by extension, on the edge of the Tibetan Plateau. The flight was uneventful, but upon waking, Mousse glowed at the thought that Shampoo had carried him all through an airport terminal.

Shampoo crushed another aluminum can in her fist, this time earning a small scratch on her palm for the trouble.

From Yushu, the Chinese Army spared two pool vehicles to drop off the group at a point closer to the village, cutting a three day hike to one. The convoy stopped on a gravel road near a pond, the only sign of nature and life in a desolate, rocky wasteland.

Save for the woman who walked in the shallows, spearing fish with shaved tree branch.

"What's an old woman doing out here?" asked Konatsu. "I thought this was the middle of nowhere."

Cologne scoffed. "Do you see with those eyes, or are they just for show? She's fishing."

"I think we can see that," said Ukyō, "but why here?"

"Perhaps she's waiting for someone."

"Who?"

"Who do you think?"

Following Cologne's lead, the party headed off the road, skidding their shoes and boots on the hard slope. With dust in their wake, they approached the pond and the old woman, cautious and wary.

"Such a pity!" said the woman. "Here I thought I'd catch a few fish before you made it. It would save time looking later."

"Always economical with the day you are," said Cologne. "Even in your old age."

The woman smiled. "It's in my nature. Every moment is precious, even when one passes her eightieth year."

"Bah, youngsters! I give you a decade before you tire of that mentality."

"Then in a decade we'll find out,yes?" Taking notice of the others in the party, the old woman cleared her throat, switching to Japanese. "I see you bring friends, Cologne."

"Associates prepared for a just cause." Cologne motioned to her companions. "This person you see before you is no mere woman. On the Council of Elders sit twelve of the wisest among us, but only three may speak in open chambers. That triumvirate is the voice of the people. This is Elder Surma, the Third Speaker. She will guide us to the village, where we'll prepare for the ultimate journey to the spring ground."

"I also bear news," said Surma, "although not all for foreign ears. What I can say is that, thanks in part to Cologne's missive, the tribe has already dispatched a scouting party to the springs and to the valley of the Sorcerers. I hope we can better understand the situation and form a plan, not only to protect my people but save your friend as well."

Akane stepped forward. "Um, Elder? If I may?"

"Of course," said Surma, smiling.

"I think Ranma would be very appreciative of everything you're doing." She gave a bow. "Thank you."

"Thank me not yet; we still have a ways to go before we make civilization. Come." She put her spear's flat end to the ground and pressed her weight to it. "We can talk much on the path. Good companions make a hike so much better."

And talk they did, trading stories of year-round Amazon tournaments and customs against the many and varied hijinks of Nerima since Ranma had come. Indeed, Surma took a curious interest in Ranma's affairs, asking about his training and skills.

"Can it be someone else wants Ranchan for herself now?" said Ukyō.

"Oh no!" The Elder laughed. "Sixteen is much too young for me. Forty or fifty, on the other hand…" Her gaze drifted to the panda.

"Down, Surma!" Cologne, stifling a chuckle, tapped her companion with her stick. "Saotome Genma may be a skilled martial artist, an inventor of two schools in his own right, but only he would devote such time an energy on arts of thievery. You will find no one else so assiduously deceitful."

Surma sighed. "Very well. Who am I to defy an old teacher's advice?"

"Your teacher?" Mousse wrinkled his brow, puzzled. "I don't understand. How can you be Third Speaker then if the old bat—"

A walking stick clubbed Mousse in the gut. "Perhaps you want me to bite you and suck your blood?" said Cologne.

"It is true, I am fairly young for the role," said Surma. "But the Council is not merely the twelve oldest among the tribe. Some, though we treasure that they still live, are infirm or out of mind."

"_Old_ does not mean _wise_," said Cologne.

"And, for that matter, you have to be willing to serve, to tolerate disagreement when you are the lone voice in opposition. It is rare, but it does happen. It _has_ happened, and I cannot fault anyone who finds it … difficult."

Cologne nodded gravely but said nothing more.

Thus, across the arid wastes of the Tibetan Plateau the group of nine marched on, squarely into the heart of the Bayan Har Mountains. With peaks on every side, the group made camp at dusk. They dined on provisions and canned beans, for scattering to hunt would cost them time—time needlessly lost when they could reach the village by noon the next day. After supper, weary travelers put up tents and slept, but an old teacher and student rekindled the fire, whispering in the night.

"You were always terrible at fishing," said Cologne.

Surma tossed a leaf into the flame. "So many things I thought I understood. I still can't for the life of me stab a fish in the gills."

"The light bends when it hits the water. You never properly took that into account."

"I did! It's not my fault it's deceptive."

"Like Pomade's looks were deceptive."

"That was family business and you know it."

"He had brothers. You _chose_ him."

"Yes, well, that decision I must still live with, and I do. He really has matured, though. You wouldn't believe it; he can make soup now."

"Good for him," said Cologne. "Everyone needs a redeeming quality."

Surma chuckled. "I suppose so." Her gaze wandered to the various tents and the firelight that flickered off them.

"You have a question?" said her companion.

"Indeed. These people—friends and family of the Saotome boy—why are they here? Why do you involve them in our war, Cologne?"

"We are not at war yet. We don't even know if the rumor is true."

"The Council is certain of it. And even if you weren't, you would know bringing outsiders into our conflict only puts them at risk."

"They would be at risk regardless," said Cologne. "I don't doubt every last one of them would make the trek here on their own, if they had to. They all care, in their own ways, too much for Ranma to let him be."

"As do you?"

"It is true; Ranma is important to Shampoo, in ways I feel unhealthy at times. But my interest in this is more … philosophical."

"What's best for the tribe is not necessarily best for Saotome Ranma."

"And what's best for Ranma isn't best for the tribe. I suppose Bindi has pointed this out, yes?"

"Repeatedly before I left to meet you," said Surma. "She seemed content to send a scouting party, and—oh, what did she say? Yes, that's it. 'If the scouts discover evidence of this Saotome boy, so be it. If not, no matter. The boy is an outsider, even if married by law to one of our own. We have no business worrying over his affairs. What the Sorcerers might want with him is the only point of interest.' "

"Oh, Bindi." Cologne shook her head. "In her eyes, yin and yang do not belong in the same universe."

Surma nodded. "Everything is or isn't; there is no 'in between.' "

"How such a person came to be First Speaker is beyond me. I remember when she was Third, and I thought, 'This woman is dangerous. She has no grasp for the consequences of power.' That was twenty years ago. I cannot fathom why she's still on the Council."

"She has a strong following," said Surma. "Four of the Nine back her without question."

"It is easy to be swayed when one cannot speak in open chambers." Cologne sighed. "When it comes to it, Bindi is a coward. Do not forget that."

"This is why you've brought this party together? To do for Saotome Ranma what the Council will not?"

"Indeed. Often the Council takes too broad a view of things. They forget that a hundred men can and will sacrifice themselves for one brother or sister. Perhaps such perspective is the duty of those who rule, but when one of our people is no longer important, not even worth considering…" She scrunched her face, the bitter taste of tea on her tongue. "To this day we don't know what happened to Ceruse—why she disappeared or who was responsible. That, my dear Surma, is nothing short of a crime. Ranma may not be our kin, but that lessens not the crime if we let him disappear the way Ceruse did. It just comforts the politicians and bureaucrats to think that it wasn't their concern in the first place."

"And so you've brought them, not just to find their friend but to recover something of Ceruse, too. The daughter who brought us to war, yet we gave her to the Sorcerers hoping for peace."

"Not _we_."

"No," said Surma. "I suppose not."

Cologne narrowed her eyes. "You didn't need to come out here to ask these questions. Perhaps I should ask _you_ what you're doing, hiking alone, waiting for us, hm?"

"I didn't hike alone," said Surma. "The other elders wouldn't approve of that. I dismissed my escort when we sighted the road."

"That tells me nothing."

"There are many arguments you can make before the Council. Some of them may gain traction, but there's only one way you can truly control the search for Saotome Ranma. The Council knows this, and so do you."

"The Last Right of a wife."

"Or a husband, if the case may be."

Cologne sipped her tea once more, silent.

"You dislike the idea?" asked Surma.

"To invoke the Last Right asserts legitimacy. That is the last thing Shampoo should do."

"Her efforts to win the boy have been unsuccessful?"

"You met the Tendō girl. What do you think of her?"

"She is his favorite?"

"In a manner. He killed Saffron for her."

"Yes, yes, I read your reports." Surma sipped, amused. "An act of heroism doesn't equate to love."

"Perhaps not, but that isn't all. As much as the boy cannot speak his mind, he's made his preference quite clear."

"Well, that is unfortunate for Shampoo, but there are other matters at hand." Surma set down her cup. "I wonder—it is not every warrior who can strike down a creature like Saffron."

"You think this the reason the Sorcerers took him?"

"Perhaps."

"The Sorcerers are capable of much greater powers. I don't see the reason."

"Nor do I."

Cologne eyed her old student carefully. "This is not why you're here."

"No."

"The Council will not take kindly to Shampoo asserting the Last Right, will they?"

"You know Speaker Bindi's thoughts on the subject. Speaker Thanaka is in agreement."

"Hah! I hadn't thought those two would agree on anything in their lives."

"It is surprising, but it seems whether one favors war or diplomacy, the fate of a single outsider boy is of no concern."

"History repeats."

"I fear, Cologne, there will be some form of retribution if Shampoo asserts the Last Right before the Council."

"Bah, 'retribution.' They cannot deny this request, so they would punish her in other ways? Let them make fools of themselves. I welcome the chance to show their stupidity."

"I doubt that would end well."

"No, you are right; it would not." Cologne tapped her cup. "But it would be most satisfying."

Surma pursed her lips, shaking her head. "You are still the same, Cologne. Let me leave you with this bit of counsel: the Elders greatly fear what the Sorcerers may bring. That fear drives them to resist any distraction, no matter how trivial or just. If you can convince them this Saotome boy is important—"

"He isn't."

"Then I don't know what can be done. You may have to invoke the Last Right, but that's dangerous. If Shampoo is not even his favorite, your position may be untenable. I cannot say you shouldn't do it, but Bindi and Thanaka rightly expect it."

"You think they have something prepared?"

"You know there are things I can't—"

"Yes, yes, the Council and its vaunted secrecy. So be it; tell me plainly, then. The Right—is it something we should consider?"

"I couldn't tell you not to entertain the idea, but do you really intend to invoke it?"

"I might," said Cologne. "But in truth, it's not my decision to make." She tossed a pebble at the animal-skin tent behind her. "Come out, Shampoo."

Silence, but for the crackling fire.

"Come out _now_ before I tell the Elder some unpleasantries about your pursuit of Saotome Ranma."

Shampoo crawled from her sleeping bag and knelt on the hard ground, avoiding either woman's gaze. "You knew I was watching?"

Cologne scoffed. "As I said before, _old_ does not mean _wise_. It also doesn't mean _deaf_ or _stupid_. Balance in everything, child."

"Yes, Great-grandmother."

"At least you know when to show respect." The matriarch turned to her companion. "Surma, if you would—"

"I take my leave now," said the elder, rising. "These old bones could stand a rest, for a while."

"Wait 'til you've passed one hundred and say that."

With a polite smile, Surma headed into her tent. "Good night."

Cologne nodded, acknowledging her friend's departure. She fixed her gaze on Shampoo, and only when the rustling settled did she speak again.

"I assume you wish to invoke the Last Right before the Council?"

Shampoo hugged her knees, staring into the fire. "I might."

"You 'might'?"

"Yes. I might."

"Do not toy with me, child. Elder Surma and I are in agreement: the Council will put no priority on the well-being of Ranma. If you truly care for him like you say—"

"Great-grandmother thinks I'm wrong to care for him." Their eyes met. "Doesn't she?"

"I only think your fixation on him could use moderation," said Cologne. "And an honest appraisal of the matter. The boy threatened your life. He doesn't love you."

"Then why should I do anything to save him?" She narrowed her eyes. "Elder Surma is right. You don't care about Ranma. You only wish to avoid repeating what happened to Aunt—"

Crash, tumble! Cologne toppled Shampoo, pinned her on the ground, and crushed the girl's windpipe under the weight of the walking stick.

"Speak another word, and I won't hesitate, kin or no kin," said Cologne. "Do not mention that name with disrespect."

She yanked the stick away, and Shampoo rubbed her throat, coughing, gasping for air.

"I do not care so much for the boy to go against your wishes, but I know he is important to you. He's important to them, too."

"You brought Ukyō; you brought _Akane_ here. Even when we make it home tomorrow, they'll be behind me."

"Live with it. The moon doesn't rise and set over you."

"No," said Shampoo. "People are small."

Cologne raised an eyebrow. "Yes. I worry for you, child. I fear your heart clouds your judgment. You will disagree, as you should. And now, if you invoke the Last Right, you'll have to convince not just the Elders but yourself that Ranma could've loved you, that you deserve the right to recover his body, if he should be dead, or rescue him from our enemies if alive. That is the Last Right of a wife, and you can only assert it if you claim, without doubt or hesitation, that you are indeed a wife at all. It will be difficult, dangerous even, to mislead the Council this way. Even now, I can't say it will be the best course."

Shampoo bowed her head, solemn and unwavering. "I'll do it," she said. "Great-grandmother, Ukyō, Akane—you'll all see. I love Ranma much more than them. I'm not afraid to do what I must to save him."

"Then go and rest. And let me not catch you eavesdropping on me again."

With a deferential nod, Shampoo retreated to her tent, pulling the flap taut behind her.

_Dangerous it is to mislead the Council, yet more dangerous still is it to mislead yourself, Great-granddaughter. It is most strange, isn't it, that the love you feel so deeply for Ranma is what's kept him from you? That it's what gives me doubts when I should support you and enjoy all our machinations to trap him? They did entertain me, for a while—until I feared what would happen if you failed. Not for the dishonor you'd incur; somehow, I doubt that truly matters to you. We all have something important to us, something deeper and closer to our hearts than any other, and to lose that thing is to lose your soul. That's what I must save you from, child, yet though it is in front of you, you do not see._

With her stick, she shoved loose dirt over the fire, draping the campsite in blackness.

"Good night, Shampoo," said Cologne. "Good night, Ceruse."

* * *

**Next:** Returning home for the first time in months, Cologne petitions the Council of Elders to let Shampoo lead a party and rescue Ranma, but First Speaker Bindi, lead voice of the Council, has already started conspiring against them. **Journey to Jusenkyō Part IV - The Nine and the Three - Coming May 7, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	16. Journey IV: The Nine and the Three

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** Shampoo and Cologne return home, hoping to lead the Amazons' war party in search of Ranma, but does the fate of one boy justify such distraction when the Jusenkyō Basin is on the brink of war?

* * *

**The Nine and the Three**

_Chapter Three, Act Four_

"If you invoke the last right," Cologne had said, "you'll have to convince not just the Elders but yourself that Ranma could've loved you, that you deserve the right to recover his body, if he should be dead, or rescue him from our enemies if alive. That is the last right of a wife, and you can only assert it if you claim, without doubt or hesitation, that you are indeed a wife at all."

Morning. The Nerima party collapsed their tents, preparing to put their soles to the arid plateau once more.

"It will be difficult, dangerous even, to mislead the Council this way."

With a bottle of water and a damp cloth, Shampoo polished her two immaculate spheres—that is, the bulbs on her pair of steel chúi, twin cudgels that were among her favorite weapons. "Why did you say that, Great-grandmother?" she asked. "Why would we mislead the Council? Why is it so dangerous?"

Cologne leaned on her walking stick, pensive. "I misspoke. It's not dangerous to lie to them; it's only dangerous to be caught."

"Lie?"

"The Council has many resources at their disposal. They often know the truth before you or I do."

"Why would I lie to them?"

"You would maintain, without a hint of reservation, that Ranma could take you as his wife?"

Shampoo tossed a chúi in the air and caught it by the handle. "In time."

"In time." Cologne huffed. "In time, this small rock we live on will melt in the sun's fire. In time, the stars themselves will fizzle and die, and perhaps the galaxies far, far away will recede so fast all we'll see is a reddening shadow. Many things can happen 'in time.' I'm asking you to be realistic."

"So, this is truth then. Great-grandmother never thought I could win Ranma."

"Truth is hardly so simple."

Shampoo scrubbed a speck of dirt from the metal sphere.

"You wish to know how I see it?" asked Cologne.

A nod.

"You think love hasn't affected your judgment. I disagree. If you hadn't fallen for Ranma, you would in all likelihood possess him. It's not as if Tendō or Kuonji have been on point in pursuing him."

"Why should I want Ranma if I don't love him?"

"Please. All I say is you haven't thought, only acted. If you wanted Tendō Akane dead, you wouldn't do it during her school's lunch hour, where dozens of witnesses would see, where Ranma himself could come to her aid. You should've done it at night, when she sleeps. You should've snuck into her room and snapped her neck without so much as a sound. But no, you used this." She yanked the cudgel away from Shampoo. "You wanted her to suffer."

"She tried to take Ranma away from me."

"And in pursuing vengeance for that, you pushed him further from you. Is it any surprise he threatened your life the next time you saw him?"

"He almost believed me."

"You trapped yourself in a lie; again, you acted without thinking. You turned Tendō against Ranma, not to win his love but to poison her heart instead. All this…" Cologne waved her stick at the fire. "No, you couldn't have foreseen this. But what did you think would happen? That Ranma would turn to you, having lost Tendō? Really? No, you didn't expect that either. You just wanted no one else to have what you desired. Is it so?"

Shampoo clutched the chúi, eying her own reflection in the metal.

"You were lucky," said Cologne. "Lucky that Tendō fears Ranma—and being without his love—as much as you do."

"Fear Ranma?"

"Indeed." Cologne took her by the bandages on her wrist. "Or else why do you still wear these?"

Shampoo yanked her arm away, rubbing the dressing.

"You may think it better if I left you in ignorance before we face the Council," said Cologne. "You'd be wrong. The Council will shred you like a stick of bamboo in a panda's maw. If you remain unaware of how truly weak your claim is on Ranma, the Council will nullify any invocation of the Last Right. They cannot deny it if they find you a wife to him; that is what you must make them believe. If Surma is right, though, Bindi or Thanaka—perhaps both of them—have ammunition to question your claim. You must prepare, child, and if you desire not my counsel for that, then you prepare on your own."

Shampoo tightened the bandage. "I still have things to pack."

"So you do," said Cologne. "So you do." The Amazon matriarch left her great-granddaughter in peace, preferring instead to poke Elder Surma with her walking stick.

"I'm awake!"

"You sleep like a teenager. Really now, when I was your age—"

"You stood more than a rod high?"

Shampoo turned her back on the pair, tying her weapons to straps on her backpack.

"You were lucky," Cologne had said. "Lucky that Tendō fears Ranma—and being without his love—as much as you do."

_Fear Ranma? _

She tugged on the bandage, pulling it back. Beneath, the skin had regained most of its original color, but a sickly yellow outlined the bruise, the place where Ranma held her, squeezing. His hand—a hand that could carve out holds in solid rock—crushed the capillaries beneath her skin. Blood, her blood, leaked out and pooled below—first red, then blue, then green, and now yellow. It was better this way. White medical tape hid the bruise from customers at Nekohanten. Even if they were students at Furinkan, witnesses to Ranma's brutality, they'd see only the bandage and not know the full extent of the wound.

Perhaps she thought to hide it from herself, too.

Shampoo shuddered. _Great-grandmother is right—I _do_ fear Ranma. Nobody else here can touch me: not Akane, not Ukyō. Ryōga perhaps, but not Mousse, not the panda. Ranma is only person, man or woman, who ever beat me in fair fight. Ranma killed Saffron._

"If you ever attack Akane again, I won't hold back! Do you hear me? I'll kill you!"

_Ranma can kill me. Ranma hates me._

And, in Shampoo's reckoning, there was no way she could fix that quickly.

As the morning hours passed, the Nerima party trudged across the Tibetan Plateau. They tiptoed over narrow mountain trails; they wrapped themselves in thick coats, braving hail and sandstorms. On the horizon, a stream sparkled, glittering with sunlight, taunting them with water they couldn't reach or drink. They emptied their canteens and pressed forward, sustained by hope, by certainty, that the Amazon village lay just over the next ridge.

Or the ridge after that. Or the ridge after that.

"Impatient folk the lot of you are," said Cologne. "Leave the navigating to the natives, would you?"

"So why aren't we there yet?" said Ryōga. "I thought you said it was just past the unstable rocks."

Cologne grumbled. "I'd like to see you lead us, Hibiki Ryōga."

"You would?"

"Perhaps if I wished a spring vacation to Okinawa."

Shampoo shut out their jibes, thinking to herself. Over all the months of pursuing Ranma, there had to be some point where she went wrong. All he needed was a little nudging, right? Making him hug her on command was nudging. Sleeping beside him, popping up in his bath—they affected him, didn't they? When she stopped doing those things, he missed them. He missed her. He nearly proposed to her just to get her back.

Nearly. He didn't. He gave her nothing but emptiness, an emptiness like the rocky wastes they braved to get home. Every time he strolled into Nekohanten, looking for noodles, Shampoo showered him in hugs and glomps, in all the food he could eat. These little acts of affection filled her with joy, and that energy stayed with her, for a time. It stayed as she wiped down the tables, scraped crumbs into a dustpan, rinsed the dishes. It stayed for a night, but by morning, she'd awaken, and Ranma's warmth had left her. She biked orders across town, fetched herbs and spices for Great-grandmother, and maybe, on any given day, she would see Ranma.

Or maybe she wouldn't.

And if she didn't, she became little more than a waitress in a foreign land, an errand girl. One of four or six or however many others who wanted Ranma for themselves. Everything she had to offer him belonged somewhere else: her body, her warrior traditions. They came from China, from Qinghai.

From home.

By noon, the party loomed on the final ridge. A stream wound through the valley below, with houses built into the cliffside. The ground was still hard and rocky, but the boulders and dirt gave way to patches of green: grasses and ferns overgrew the path down, into the village. There was life in this place.

It was home—the home she left, a home bustling with activity, with the needed duties of surviving the wilds. Archers returned from the hunt, bows and hides strapped to their backs. Farmers tilled the earth, preparing for the springtime sowing. Long cooped up for winter, a new year of warriors strung a log between four wooden posts. They made the venue on which they'd fight and prove themselves, earning the title of champion and accolades from the village as a whole.

Like Shampoo did, for all of five minutes before Ranma devoured her prize and kicked her off the log.

The group hiked into the valley, the home of the Amazons, and Shampoo marveled at how little had changed. With the tournament close at hand, warriors trained with their bows, their swords, maces, and pikes. Workhorses trotted along the river, bearing riders and armor for man and steed. Never before had Shampoo witnessed such commotion all for the yearly tournament.

"These preparations are hardly for sport," said Cologne, squinting. "Our people ready themselves for war, child. Thanaka's outdone himself, I see—stirring the fury of the people like the broth in his soup."

"The Second Speaker's had a hand in this, yes," said Surma, "but you should be pleased. The people are adamant to exact vengeance, to make good on twenty years of waiting to repay lost fathers and brothers for their sacrifices. They want what you want, Teacher."

"Perhaps." Cologne set her eyes forward, hopping along on her walking stick. "Strange, though, that word of the Sorcerers would galvanize such action in just one or two days."

The Third Speaker nodded but said nothing.

"It is comforting, though, isn't it, Shampoo?" Mousse fell in step beside her, whispering. "To be back among our brothers and sisters?"

Behind Cologne's lead, the party stopped before a large abode, shaded by the cliffs above. A somber man with dark glasses paced down the path to meet them.

"Yes," said Shampoo. "I think so."

The man exchanged bows with Surma and Cologne. Shampoo, too, nodded and bowed once, and the man did the same.

"Welcome," he said, addressing the company in Japanese. "You are guests in my home, of our family, for as long as you must stay. A meal has been prepared for you inside. Please make yourselves comfortable."

As the group headed inside, Ukyō jogged ahead. "Hey, Shampoo, Mousse—who is that? I'm not sure how I feel about staying with people before being introduced."

Cologne chuckled.

"Something funny?" said Ukyō. "All I did was ask a simple question!"

"He is my father."

The Japanese contingent halted in surprise, but Shampoo and the Amazons kept walking.

"This is my home."

No mere meal awaited the party from Japan this day. The steamy aroma of beef broth wafted through the doorway, welcoming the guests. Spring rolls stacked in rows, whenever one tray disappeared, another took its place. About a low table, the travelers gathered, sating their empty stomachs, grateful for a moment's rest.

"Now that we're here, though, when do we set out again?" asked Akane. "When do we head to Jusenkyō?"

Cologne spooned out a dab of bean paste. "That will take some doing."

"The Council is very alarmed over the reappearance of the Sorcerers," said Surma. "It is not so much a question of Saotome Ranma's fate as the safety of the tribe as a whole."

"Which means your people don't want anything to do with it," said Ukyō. "Am I right?"

"Shampoo and I will make our case before the Council," said Cologne, "but I must admit there is a chance we won't succeed. Council politics is very intricate, you see. As I said, the Council has twelve members, only three of whom may speak. The other nine carry the power to vote. It is this balance that maintains division between power to influence and power to act. We have relied on this system for generations, and never has it failed us…"

While Cologne delved into the history of the Council, Shampoo excused herself from the table. To hear the same lessons from her childhood might be nostalgic at best, but there was much to do, much to consider, before she and Cologne faced the Elders.

And, for that matter, much to see, not only of the village but this house, too. A series of woven tapestries hung in the hallway, and Shampoo touched them all, ever-so-gently, as she passed them by. Each one told a story, a tale from folklore or legend—some more recent than others. On one mat, a prince, surrounded by the twelve elders, came to the village to claim his princess. On another, a man drew a greatsword, banishing an ambassador from his court. On a third, a river flowed over a cliff, a waterfall, and for as far as the eye could see, there were no trees, only dust.

This was Father's Mother's house once. She had only boys, and they all fought there, in the lower valley. All but Father. All of them turned to ash.

In leaving, Shampoo forgot history.

She turned a corner, entering a small bedroom. A window, facing outward, away from the cliff, lit the room with the western sun. The bed was made, with each fold and crease precise, perfected. Eternal, unblemished.

No one slept in this bed. No one dreamed in this bed. Not for days, months, years? Those dreams belonged somewhere else. Even if Ranma came to love her, would he want to stay here? No, at best, this would be a part-time home, a place of return from many travels, from studies in the martial disciplines of the world. Being the best—that mattered to Ranma, and once he learned all he could from Shampoo's people, he wouldn't sit still, not for her, not for their children.

And if Ranma didn't take her, the stain of dishonor would taint everything she touched, everyone she spoke to. The walls of this house would imprison her; let no one but family lay eyes her, on she who failed to seduce her lawful groom. With or without Ranma, she'd already abandoned this place, this home. Perhaps not by choice, but that was the way of things. Little girls grow up to be big girls. Some fight; some die. Some bear children and have little girls of their own. The cycle repeats.

The cycle repeated outside Shampoo's window. Two young girls—one short-haired, the other long—dueled one another with wooden swords. The short-haired girl swept her opponent's legs, kicked the training weapon away, and held the long-haired girl at dull sword-point. The girls rose. They dusted themselves off and battled again, two more times, and in each, the short-haired girl proved the victor.

Shampoo climbed through her window, trotting to the road. The long-haired girl collapsed in a cloud of dust.

"You fight all wrong," said Shampoo. "You can't stop the sword outright, only absorb and deflect."

"I know that!"

"Then do it. Here." She took the wooden sword and dropped to her knees, at eye level with the short-haired girl. "Come at me."

The short-haired girl pulled back and thrust!

Shampoo deflected with the back of her blade and made a backhand slash, tracing a line from right shoulder to left hip. The wooden sword whiffed at air, but the short-haired girl jumped back in surprise, all the same.

"I can't do that," said the long-haired girl.

"If you don't practice, no," said Shampoo. "You can't." Wiping the dirt off her knees, she tossed the wooden sword back to its owner. "Deflect," she said. "She has longer arms than you. You have to wait for an opening to strike."

"I know that!"

"Then do it." Shampoo folded her arms, and with a nod, she signaled the girls start again. Though the long-haired girl still struggled, she did block an overhead swipe and had the presence of mind to divert it harmlessly away. She elbowed at thin air, however, and ate a rib-splitting slash … or it would've been, if the swords were real. She tumbled in the dust, panting, and glared at her would-be teacher.

"Cannot fix bad play in five minutes," said Shampoo.

In the doorway to the cliffside house, Cologne banged her stick on the front step. "Again you distract yourself with things that don't concern you, child. You must put your mind on your own matters."

Shampoo huffed. "I know that."

"Then do it. The world may not wait for you, Shampoo, but the Council does." Cologne motioned with her stick, pointing out a plume of black in the distance. "Surma has already left. The Council sits in open chambers, and we are its audience."

Nodding, Shampoo took a handful of loose dirt and crouched before the dueling girls once more, addressing the long-haired one. "Remember now," she said. "Absorb and deflect, but if those don't work…"

She opened her hand and blew dust in the air. The girls coughed, shielding their eyes.

"Cheat," said Shampoo, "if you must."

Cologne banged her stick again, this time from the rocky path upriver. "Shampoo!"

"Coming, Great-grandmother!" With that, Shampoo trotted off, in Cologne's wake. Two young girls might be easily deceived. Duping the Council, however, would prove a harder task.

#

The Council of Elders met in no ostentatious meeting hall or great palace. Instead, they convened amidst the wilds. From a high ledge, overlooking the village, the plume of black smoke rose and billowed. In rain or sleet, shine or snow, the Council members trekked the narrow path to the top. Should any of them prove unfit to make the journey, another would take their place. The village demanded leaders of sound mind and body; nothing else would do for a true warrior people, and anyone who wished to address the Council hiked the same path as they.

It was no obstacle for Cologne. She hopped from rock to rock, outpacing her great-granddaughter. "You must be quick, Shampoo!" she said. "To make the high and vaunted Council wait for its audience is tantamount to treason, after all."

Cologne may have treated the Council with disdain and scorn, but Shampoo couldn't be so flippant, not if she meant to invoke the Last Right and have the Council take her seriously.

"I think we must make the Last Right our final weapon, if all else fails," said Cologne. "If Surma is correct, Bindi or Thanaka—perhaps both of them—anticipate you'll invoke it. I fear they have some plan, some legal loophole or worse, that will put us in weak position, weak enough to nullify any argument we make before the Nine. No, if they truly did not want us to use it, it wouldn't have been Surma who met us by the road yesterday."

"Why is that?"

"Because Bindi herself would've been there instead, hoping to dissuade us. That Surma was allowed to go in her stead…"

"They want us to invoke the Right? Why?"

"I don't know. Nevertheless, we may have no choice but to invoke it, if the Council proves too obstinate to be swayed otherwise, and suffer the consequences, whatever they may be. That is how you deal with the Council, child: you must know their workings, their machinations. It is impossible for anyone not on the Council to understand them. They are Nine and Three: a Nine most closed to anyone else, a Three who speak openly, but whose words might not convey the Council's beliefs as a whole. It is a messy thing, this business of politics. I can hardly stomach it anymore."

_You fear what the Council will do if I invoke the Right, and then you show me how Ranma's heart isn't mine? Do you really fear the Council, Great-grandmother? Or do you fear what's in my heart instead? _

From to the top of the ledge, Shampoo looked over the whole of the village. Nestled between the cliffs, her people clung to the stream, the water of life itself.

_Because I fear it too. Maybe I could never have this and Ranma, not together._

Then why should she go before the Council, open her life and honor to such scrutiny, all for him?

_Ranma might not love me, but he doesn't deserve the Sorcerers, whatever they're doing to him, whatever they've done._

Dense ferns grew atop the finger of rock and soil. Shampoo and Cologne wove through the trees. Ahead, the vegetation cleared, and on wooden benches, in groups of three, sat the Elders of the Council. Robes and hoods obscured their faces, their bodies, but one among them, a woman it seemed, circled their campfire, tossing thick strips of cloth into the flame. The cloth burned black, and the smoke cleared the canopy of trees, reaching for the sun.

"Right on time you are," said the woman, peeling back her hood. It was Elder Surma, who smiled and nodded, in deference to the Council's audience. "First Speaker, I present Shampoo and Cologne, daughters of—"

"We can dispense with the introductions, can we not?" From the far bench, the hooded figure on the left rose. A hooked nose emerged from shadow, and cold gray eyes peered out, watching. The woman was tall; she towered a head above Surma and stood straight, like an arrow in flight. "Though perhaps," she said, "it is Shampoo who requires introductions from us."

"Child, this is Elder Bindi," said Cologne. "The First Speaker."

"I am honored to speak as the Speakers do." Shampoo bowed once, as was custom.

Bindi glared.

"And we are honored to have you." The middle figure of the far bench rose, completing the triad. A balding man he was, shorter than the two women beside him. His keen brown eyes met Shampoo's own. "That's the response you expected, isn't it?"

"And this is Elder Thanaka, the Second," said Cologne. "I see a healthy score has changed neither of you, Speakers."

"We have aged," said Bindi. "As have you."

Cologne planted her walking stick, leaning against it. "I like to think I see the world from a perspective closer to the ground now."

"And it is our duty to see it from on high, to watch not only the village but what lies beyond."

The two women locked eyes, staring.

"Perhaps we're getting ahead of ourselves, yes?" said Thanaka. "The session has just begun."

"That is so," said Bindi. "Third?"

"Yes, First Speaker?" said Surma.

"State the business of this Council."

With a nod, Surma stepped forward, tossing another bundle of cloth in the fire. "We sit today to hear Cologne's petition—that we should muster arms to rescue Saotome Ranma, lawful husband—"

"_Intended_ husband," said Bindi.

"… Saotome Ranma—lawful, intended husband to Shampoo—from the hands of the Sorcerers."

Shampoo clenched her teeth. Already they were disparaging her with legal technicalities.

"Cologne," said Bindi. "You may speak."

"Thank you, First Speaker." Cologne hopped to the base of her fire, turning her back to the Speakers. "Members of the Council, I stand before you today with a simple argument: Saotome Ranma is our kin by law; whether that marriage to Shampoo is consummated is beyond point."

_Because if it _were_ consummated, that would be easier._

"The Sorcerers have abducted Saotome Ranma, and in doing so, they have committed an act of aggression against our tribe. We can and should confront the Sorcerers over this. That they would break their long isolation, after all this time, must have some explanation, and for our own safety, our security, we should know it. I know there are some among you who would urge patience and diplomacy, but consider----the Sorcerers have deceived us before, concealed the truth without so much as a token effort to hind behind a lie. If we do make diplomatic contact with them, we should confirm whatever they tell us. We should believe them only if they prove worthy of our trust. A party to uncover Ranma's fate may also tell us much of the Sorcerers' plans. If neither law nor political caution appeal to you, if you think Ranma unimportant to us, then I'd only remind you of the message I sent in my telegram of the last half-moon: Saotome Ranma defeated Saffron at Mount Kensei. As Shampoo's intended, I've trained him in our ways and techniques. This is dangerous knowledge for the Sorcerers to have, even if they mean no war against us. Thus, I cannot urge this Council too strongly—do not abandon Saotome Ranma to the Sorcerers' will. It endangers our village while they hold him, and whether deliberate or accidental, their taking of him can only herald something worse to come."

Cologne leaned on her walking stick, her back to the three Elders behind the fire.

"I await your rebuttal, Speakers," she said.

"Then rebuttal you shall have," said Bindi.

Cologne stepped aside, making way for the First Speaker.

"I know none of us forget the war that changed our people.," said Bindi. "Of those among us today, several sat on the Council then, as now. At the time, we made controversial decisions, necessary decisions, to preserve what was left of our ways, our existence. These are precious things. Lives, once taken, cannot be regrown in the fields. When no one left practices our arts, when our scrolls and books burn in the libraries that house them, our long traditions die. I know of no one from that time who lost not a son or a brother, an uncle or a cousin in that battle at the Sorcerers' waterfall. I lost two grandchildren of my own, but it is not for them or for their memory that I act. It is for those that are left behind, for us.

"For twenty years we've waited, prepared for this day. I dare say we were not ready. Our daughters, our granddaughters, court men from the outside, hoping to infuse the village with fresh blood, yet hardly a whole generation has had time to spawn and train, to serve the tribe should the Sorcerers strike. We all fear that, do we not? We fear that we will turn to ash and drift in the river, swept away and forgotten. We fear these things, yet what did the Sorcerers do when they emerged victorious that day? Did they march upon our village? No. Did they take our food and children and make them their own? No. Headlong did we rush into war then, and the Sorcerers had every right to finish that war. They didn't, and before I send my children's children to battle once more, I, at least, must know with certainty what the Sorcerers plan, why they have awakened. We should not make it habit to start wars without provocation. How could the Sorcerers reasonably expect a Japanese boy wandering about the spring ground would be, in some arcane, legal sense, our kin? The notion is absurd. The notion that that boy is anyone's husband is absurd."

Shampoo balled her hand into a fist, but Cologne's walking stick held her at bay.

"Believe me, I have sympathy for the Saotome boy," said Bindi, "but a wedding unconsummated cannot have full standing in the eyes of the law!"

"That is only grounds for nullification, and you know it!" said Cologne. "And only if the infringed party wishes it."

"And how exactly shall Saotome Ranma ask for nullification if he's still in the Sorcerers' hands?"

"Enough," said Surma. "You speak out of turn, Cologne. Another infraction, and the Council may move to censure you."

"An outsider trained in some flashy techniques does not compromise our arts as a whole," said Bindi. "And Cologne here would have no mere scouting party sent to investigate the loss of her 'son-in-law.' She would make any forces we give her into a war party to instigate conflict. Even on the heels of massive defeat, she wished to do so. Twenty years ago, she—"

"First Speaker, I am still empowered to keep your argument on point," said Surma. "And to judge when it isn't."

"The actions and attitudes of the petitioner are relevant."

"When they are twenty years past, I cannot agree."

Bindi squinted. "And if I appeal to Thanaka?"

"I must agree with Speaker Surma," said the Second. "Whether we should or should not authorize a party is a separate issue from who controls it."

"Yes, yes," said Bindi. "You would hold that opinion, wouldn't you. Very well. I retract the point. To involve us in the affairs of a boy who's never lived in this village, made no contribution to its survival, is foolish at best, irresponsible at worst. We've already sent scouts to the spring ground. Let us hear what they report before we make any hasty action."

"Cologne," said Surma, "you may make rebuttal now if you wish."

"I reserve the right to rebut after the Speakers have finished their remarks."

Shampoo flinched. Would Great-grandmother really let those comments pass to fester in the minds of the Council?

Cologne took her aside, whispering. "By saying nothing, the Nine will not think about these things now. Addressing them all at once, we lessen their impact."

_Or we sound weak, having to defend ourselves from three knives at a time instead of one._

"Do you change your mind, Cologne?" asked Surma.

"No, we do not."

"Then I believe it is my turn to speak," said Thanaka. "Is it not, Third?"

Surma nodded, stepping back, and the Second Speaker took her place.

"The First Speaker has made an impressive argument, to be sure," said Thanaka, pacing about the fire, "but I fear she remembers history in a way that colors it wrongly, the way a painted pot fades after long exposure to the sun."

"That," said Bindi, "is because you use poor paint."

"Oh, now who speaks out of turn?"

"There will be order in these chambers," said Surma. "There will be order, or else the Nine may move against the Three."

Bindi sat, watching the horizon, silent.

"As I said, the First colors the truth in a way that makes the picture look duller and more uninteresting than it was—or rather, than it is. The First has said _we_ were the instigators, that we stirred up a war. Why? For territory? For resources? That isn't our way. Yes, there were tensions between us and the Sorcerers. I won't deny them, but we made an effort, an effort in good faith, to repair those relations. A woman on this very council gave her own kin to heal that schism. This is history. You all know this, and you all know that there is one and only one reason we went to war with the Sorcerers: to avenge what was undoubtedly the murder of one of our own. For one girl, we sent an army to discover the truth, and I dare ask anyone here to contend that was the wrong thing to do.

"But then, there was the Battle of the Waterfall, and we lost … so many. Too many, a calamity no one could've foreseen. Then, too, we made the right decision. We withdrew, ready to defend our village should the Sorcerers come. They didn't. Who can say what losses they suffered in that battle. Maybe it was a war without victory, only defeat for both sides; who can say? Since then, we have trained many warriors. We've sought new blood to strengthen the tribe. What do you think the Sorcerers were doing? What do you think they've _been_ doing for the last twenty years? Preparing, as we've done, I assure you—they make themselves ready for war. The four warriors who took Saotome Ranma from the spring ground are just the beginning."

Cologne raised an eyebrow.

"If you doubt this, consider what we would do if just one armed Sorcerer had set foot on our soil. We'd hunt them, would we not? We'd hunt them down until we knew with certainty no Sorcerer would dare try it again. And that's just for one man. For an army, like the army we brought to the Sorcerers' doorstep, what would we do? What would _they_ do?

"I assure you, fellow elders of this council, the Sorcerers mean us ill, and we must make a show of force to deter them. If our path comes to it, we must should prepare to make war." Thanaka stopped before the fire. His eyes scanned across the Nine who were silent, as if to make each of them hear his words like he whispered in their ears. "To make war for ourselves, our protection, our people. Cologne has petitioned the Council to do what—seek this stranger boy? We will sooner stand on the ashes of our brothers and sisters than find him. There is no point, and if we give Cologne and her party of outsiders autonomy in this matter, how can that be good for the war we may fight? We'd risk the future of our village to save this Ranma? A boy who has never shown interest in the ways of our people, in building its future, and though he is lawfully obliged to marry her, he has, in showing delay and hesitation, essentially rejected one of the finest blossoms of her generation. He wants nothing to do with us."

_He wants nothing to do with me._

"Third Speaker, my remarks are concluded."

"Very well. Cologne, do you still wish to defer rebuttal?"

"For the moment, I address only a small segment of the Second Speaker's remarks."

Surma nodded. "You may proceed."

"Second Speaker, you mentioned that Saotome Ranma was taken by four assailants; is that correct?"

"It is."

"How do you know this?"

"The Council has its sources," said Thanaka. "They cannot be revealed unless a Speaker or the Nine will it, and even then, not outside these chambers."

"You need not quote me protocol," said Cologne. "If you do not wish it revealed, I cannot compel you, but still I ask it, all the same."

"If I may," said Surma, "I have yet to make my remarks. I can assure your grievance with this matter will be addressed."

Bindi and Thanaka stared at Surma.

"Then I defer to you, Third," said Cologne.

With a flick of her wrist, Surma tossed another strip of cloth into the fire, and a puff of black smoke rose skyward. Bindi and Thanaka backed away and sat on the Speakers' bench, silent.

"Do not worry, child," said Cologne. "Surma is fair and impartial. She will back us. I'm sure of it."

The Third Speaker stepped forward, her voice clear and soft. "Elders of the Council, we have heard many arguments on this matter. I know opinions are diverse and varied, and no doubt once I have finished and Cologne has made her rebuttal, we will spend much time in deliberation, considering with great care the consequences of our acts. For this reason, I will try to keep my remarks short.

"To begin, I must disagree with the First Speaker. I feel she puts too much responsibility for wars of the past on us, and I cannot see how who started what conflict is relevant to the present situation. Perception is important, yes, and the Sorcerers may well see us as the instigators. I cannot say. What I do know is that the Sorcerers have made no effort to contact us or any of the other tribes in the basin. I can only conclude that it is not important to them, after twenty years of isolation, or it is important, in their eyes, not to make their presence known. I do not share the First Speaker's confidence that the Sorcerers won't start a war because they refused to finish in the past. We simply do not know.

"And that applies in both directions. Unlike what the Second Speaker has told you, the first appearance of the Sorcerer Guard does not imply that war is coming to us. They sent only four to the spring ground. We know this because we have witnesses to that effect."

From the woods and the path behind, an armed escort brought forth a man and his young daughter.

Shampoo leaned down, to Cologne. "What are they doing here?"

"Believe me, child," said the great-grandmother, "I wish I knew."

"You have been invited to this session of the Council," said Surma, "so you may speak, and I ask that you do so."

"I understand," said the man.

"Who are you?"

"I am the guide to the thousand springs," he said. "The cursed training ground."

"You were present when the Sorcerers took Saotome Ranma?"

"At first, I didn't recognize their clothes," said the Guide, "but later, after they'd taken him, I thought perhaps they could be Sorcerers, yes. Strange, I thought, for twenty years not to see them, and now—"

"That is a topic for another time," said Surma. "What did you do after they took him?"

"I hoped to follow, but they moved too fast, even with honored guest as a prisoner. I tried to call Japan, warn his family, but the telephones were down. I waited three days, but there was no change, so I took my daughter and came here."

Cologne gaped. "Third Speaker, if I may?"

"If you like."

"Guide, you say you waited three days to see if lines of communication with the outside would return. That is so?"

"Yes."

"And it took you how long to journey from the spring ground to our village?"

"Three days, two nights."

"You see, that is interesting," said Cologne, "for I learned of Saotome Ranma's capture from the boy Kunō. Not being of full mental capacity, he wandered the plateau for some time before returning to civilization. He only returned to Japan with this news two days ago."

Thanaka and Bindi narrowed their eyes. Surma bowed her head.

"Guide, how long have you been in the village?" asked Cologne.

"Five days."

Shampoo blinked. She looked among the Council members, yet no one moved. No one seemed even surprised. How could this be? How could the Guide have been there for five days and they didn't know—

They knew.

They knew for five days, and they said nothing.

The Guide knew Ranma's history with Shampoo. He knew Ranma. The Council knew Ranma. They knew everything, before Shampoo and Cologne did, and they didn't care.

"The Council voted not to notify you," said Surma.

"That explains why Ranma was in the Sorcerers' hands for three days and you did nothing?" said Shampoo. "You said nothing?"

"Once the Council has voted, the decision is binding," said Cologne. "No one, even Speaker Surma, can countermand that without risk of censure." She stepped forward, her eyes like slits. "I do wish, however, that my dear old student had told me I'd be wasting my time in seeing the Council, especially on a matter that had already been decided!"

"Nothing is decided permanently," said Surma. "You know this."

"What I know is that this has been great theater! A tale we should tell by the fire as we dance and chant. A tale of how the Council put on the grandest of shows, rife with pomp and ceremony. I suppose I should've known better than to come here and expect my argument be taken seriously!"

"Please, Teacher," said Surma. "I wanted you to come here. Forget censure; if I'd told you of this, would you have bothered to petition the Council at all?"

"Not a chance! You're not interested in action, only talk! I should've known better than to involve this vaunted body in a matter of family!"

"No, you should've known better than to expect we'd move mountains to save one boy. As close to you as he is, you cannot see. Thanaka is right: what can we do differently to rescue him that we wouldn't do in a war? Bindi is right, too: why should we go to war when we don't know what they want with him or if it even involves us? I don't object to learning what happened to him, but I know fact-finding isn't what you have in mind. We all do. Don't you see how much risk you ask of us, of our people, with so little promise of success, and even less promise of return? This boy will not marry Shampoo, will he? Can you tell me, without doubt or misdirection, that he wants to be a part of this tribe? If he doesn't, can you make him?"

Shampoo breathed quickly, her glances frantic and swift. Doubters they were. Doubters all of them. Wasn't it enough that she doubted herself? No, they _conspired_ against her. They meant to leave Ranma in the Sorcerers' clutches. They'd already judged her unworthy; Ranma didn't want her love, and she'd failed to convince him, persuade him, outright _force_ him to take her. That's why she should have no chance to save him, no way to reclaim the honor she'd lose, no way to pass him by in the morning and jump off her bike to glomp him.

Who were they to say Ranma couldn't love her? Who were these old, wrinkled people to judge where his heart might turn? To say, after all these months of chasing him, she was wrong to even try.

"Yes." Shampoo marched past the fire, straight to the Speakers' bench. "I say it. Ranma can love me. I know it. It doesn't matter what any of you say."

Cologne rushed forward, taking her by the hand. "Step back, child!" she said. "We were wrong to even come here; let it be!"

"No!" She shook Cologne's grip away, and before the Three speakers, she stared them down with a fiery gaze. "I can be his wife—no, I _am_ his wife, and I invoke the Last Right! I name myself to lead a party, to take him from the Sorcerers or take back his body if I must. You won't stop me! None of you can!"

The central fire, running on embers, dimmed and faded. The black smoke cleared, and there was silence in the Council's meeting place, for a time.

"Then it is decided," said Bindi. "Shampoo has invoked the Last Right, and now this Council stands fit to judge her upon it. You make no further argument?"

"I don't need to," said Shampoo.

"Then I begin my remarks," said the First Speaker, "with this."

She opened her robes, and from an interior pocket, she retrieved a stack of envelopes, each identical to the others.

"What is this?" Cologne shuddered. "What are you doing, Bindi?"

"Be silent!" said the First. "Unlike Surma, I do not tolerate outbursts during my remarks. You will hear what I have to say." She unfolded a letter, and drawing a pair of spectacles, she read from the page. " 'Mousse and Shampoo have returned today from their escapades with the Phoenix, and though Shampoo is silent, Mousse has been anything but. He is awash with joy over Son-in-law's saving of the Tendō girl. According to him, he has never seen such emotion out of Saotome, and given how Shampoo won't react to his claims, I have no choice but to believe it true. I fear, as enjoyable as this game has been, it may at last be at an end, and not the end we hoped for. I've suspected for some time; I thought them both too stubborn to truly express themselves, but now I stand here, with their wedding invitation in my hand. Son-in-law only has eyes for Tendō now. I have seen it, and so has Shampoo.' "

If Shampoo could break like a mirror and scatter into a thousand different shards…

"You too, Great-grandmother?"

Cologne ignored her, instead jumping atop her walking stick to stare in Bindi's eyes. "Those letters are private! How did you get them?"

"The Council's powers are not questioned." Bindi held out the stack—dozens of letters, maybe more—for all the Elders to see. "I have, in my hand, the full progression of Shampoo's relationship with Saotome Ranma. I trust, upon the Council's inspection of them, there is no reason to consider Shampoo having truly convinced Saotome Ranma of marrying her, whether by voluntary or coercive means. To say she is his wife is a travesty to the truth."

Shampoo trembled. _So this is it. Everyone—the Elders, my own family—they see me as nothing. Unworthy. Without hope._

"Cologne," said Surma, "do you wish to make rebuttal?"

She eyed Shampoo, and whatever rage was in her eyes against Bindi, Cologne said nothing of it. "No," she said, jumping off the walking stick. "No rebuttal. I withdraw my petition. Shampoo and I will take our leave and return home."

"That is your right." From a pouch on her belt, Surma retrieved a light strip of parchment. She dropped it in the fire, and the paper burned with clear white smoke. "The Council sits in closed chambers. All guests of the Elders will leave."

#

"I swear on your Mother's grave, child; I did not know they could do this."

Sunset over the Amazon village. In her father's home, Shampoo kneeled at the dinner table, and Cologne hopped about, restless, disgusted.

"I don't know what law they use to justify it," said the Amazon matriarch, "but when I found out, I will challenge it! This seizure of private correspondence is—"

"Unprecedented." Elder Surma stood in the doorway, bowing her head. "I'm sorry, Cologne. I knew of the Guide and his daughter, but this … I only suspected something was afoot."

"And I should believe that?"

"Perhaps you shouldn't, but we all do our duty. You look after your family, and I look after the village. That's why I warned you about the Right; I wished to spare you any ill consequences for speaking your mind. I hoped you would make some argument that escaped me, but in the end, I spoke the truth as I see it. I could not, in good conscience, say anything else."

"So that's how it is," said Cologne. "Duty trumps what is just every time."

"Unfortunately," said Surma. "I dare say even more so here. Shampoo, would you come with me, please?"

Quiet and sullen, Shampoo obeyed. What more could they say to her?

"Surma?" said Cologne. "What are you doing?"

"Shampoo, for your behavior before the Council today, Speaker Bindi put forward a motion to the Nine."

On the steps to Shampoo's home, twelve Amazon warriors stood in a circle, their weapons tied to their hips.

"You cannot dishonor her for her failure to win Ranma!" said Cologne. "The boy isn't free to reject her!"

"She will stand judged for that when he is no longer captive," said Surma. "Shampoo, the motion charged that, in stating you were Saotome Ranma's wife, you had willfully and knowingly meant to deceive the Council. Such behavior is not conducive to the efficient governing of the people. The Nine do not tolerate people who speak untruths."

"I spoke no untruth!" said Shampoo. "Ranma will—"

"Please." Surma took her by the shoulders, easing her into the center of the circle. "The decision's already been made."

Shivering, Shampoo looked to Cologne. "Great-grandmother?"

"I'm sorry. This is the Council's decision to make."

"Shampoo," said Surma, "do you know what this is?" In her hand, the Third Speaker held a necklace, a string of smooth red jade. "In times before, the Council would behead anyone who perjured themselves before the Nine. Today, we are not so barbaric, but I dare say this punishment may be worse."

Surma unclasped the necklace and strung it around Shampoo's neck.

"These red gems stand for blood," said Surma. "The blood of the beheaded who cannot speak, who can tell no lie, not to the Council, not to the tribe. Only with your kin may you speak now, and only they may speak on your behalf. To everyone else, you will not be heard, nor will they speak to you."

Surma departed the circle, and the twelve warriors in attendance turned their backs on Shampoo. In the center, she stood alone, unable to cry out and protest her dishonor.

She choked on silence, for that was all she could muster.

* * *

**Next:** Prisoner to the Sorcerers, Ranma trains the Guard on how to defeat "Saffron," biding his time, waiting for some small chance of escape. **"Journey to Jusenkyō" Part V - "Occupation" - Coming May 14, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	17. Journey V: Occupation

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** The Ki Sorcerers captured Ranma, looking for someone to be their Sieve. To save his own skin, Ranma told them it was Saffron they were after. Now, the Sorcerers occupy Jusenkyō, training for battle against the Phoenix.

* * *

**Occupation**

_Chapter Three, Act Five_

Since ancient times, fire has been a powerful symbol for mankind. It represents realization—of control over the elements, of secrets that might lie beyond our sight. Fire links us to the unexplored, to that which frightens us and entertains the imagination. Through fire and light we tame the darkness, and even in its most primitive form, the flames of a burning beacon warn that danger is near. At its most advanced, however, fire can do much more.

Before an open flame sat Kohl, advisor to the Lady of the Ki Sorcerers. Into the flames, he sprinkled a fine powder and inhaled the fumes. Three puffs of smoke he breathed in. Calming his mind, he reached for the stars with his thoughts. He roamed the countryside—the desolate plains of the Tibetan Plateau, the small patches of life that hugged the river basins. His mind drifted to the waterfall, to the grand, imposing spire that lay at its base, and to the person who meditated in the most secluded chambers, cool and serene.

'_I feel you, Kohl.'_

He saw her words; they danced in midair, rippling over stone. The torches on the walls crackled, and their sounds appeared to him as reds and yellows, more vibrant than the flames. The deep, shimmering reflection in her water bowl he tasted on his tongue, like the sweetness of a tangerine. All senses blended together; no one was distinct from the others. Hence, he could only say he _felt_ the room and its occupant, for he knew no other way to express it.

_And I you, my lady._

'_You seek my counsel?'_ asked Sindoor.

_The barracks is completed. My men move into their new accommodations tonight._

'_Good. And the channelers?'_

_Their meditations are uninterrupted._

'_All is well then, yet you have concerns?'_

_The priests spend every waking hour in the woods, my lady._

'_As I directed them to.'_

_For what purpose? _

'_Knowledge. This is a rare opportunity, Kohl—we may better understand the blessings we enjoy.'_

_I see._

'_Do you? I sense your disquiet. What is it that troubles you?'_

_I have two dozen warriors under me here; the rest I cannot ask to fight. We are … vulnerable._

'_Your men learn from Saotome Ranma the weaknesses of the Phoenix tribe. This is efficient.'_

_We are vulnerable._

'_This is efficient.'_

_If the Phoenix should learn our intent—_

'_I doubt they even suspect.'_

Kohl looked away from the fire. _So for now we build in secrecy._

'_Stubborn you are. You wish to return home.'_

_I do._

'_And abandon your duty?'_

_Never, my lady. But that doesn't change what I wish for._

'_Tilaka.'_

Kohl narrowed his eyes.

'_In time, Kohl, in time. I would indeed prefer you to lead the assault on Mount Phoenix, but for now, think of the source as our second home. Fortify it. Make it impregnable.'_

_This place is not important to us, my lady. I don't see the wisdom in defending it._

'_Without the source water beneath the mountain, there is no sacred spring for us. Think about what we would be if that supply were disrupted.'_

_We've not needed to stand guard at the source before._

'_Times are different now. The outside world has reached into our village and touched us. Our long exile may inexorably come to an end.'_ The fire flickered. _'Do your duty, Kohl. That is all I've ever asked of you.'_

The flames went out.

Kohl rose, stomping on the embers. His vision cleared; his ears heard only the sounds of running water, not the light of the sun above or the black of burnt wood. Magical waters they were, imbued with the blessings of spirits or gods, yet for all that power, Kohl sensed some other energy, a presence…

"Oi."

Kohl straightened his tunic. "Yes?"

A pigtailed girl peered over the ledge, climbing into the depression, the crater. "Your men are waiting. You coming or what?"

"Give me a moment."

"Suit yourself." Ranma sat, dangling his legs over the edge. "Why do you keep coming here, anyway?"

Kohl stared into the water, spying his own reflection. Long, reddish-brown hair fell over a girl's shoulders. Cold blue eyes studied the image harshly and narrowed.

"Hello, captain?" said Ranma. "Wuya?"

"What?" said Kohl.

"Something special about this place?"

Kohl closed his eyes, listening with the hairs on his arms and neck. "Don't you sense it?"

"Sense what?"

"When you look at the sun and glance away, isn't its shadow still clear to you?"

"If you mean like an afterimage, sure."

"There's something similar here." Kohl ran his fingers over the rock and stone. "A latent flow of ki. An afterimage, like you say. An echo."

"An echo of what?"

"I don't know." The girl, the captain, met Ranma's gaze. "You don't feel it?" she asked.

Ranma shivered, but he fixated on pool and the waters below. "No. I don't feel a thing."

"I see." Kohl pulled the drawstring on a small, brown pouch, tying it to his belt. It was too much to think an outsider, one in her true form, at that, would fully appreciate the vortex of energies in this place. Such people are unattuned to the flows of ki. They let the currents sway them; they don't understand the power they could harness from a simple eddy, let alone a whirlpool.

"Hey," said Ranma. "Are we going or what?"

"Impatient," said the captain.

"Yeah, well, I'm not the one going on about how my spider sense is tingling."

Kohl and Ranma climbed up, free from the depression. Hiking uphill, they left the source waters of Jusenkyō behind. The cold, cursed water pooled among the remains of the Phoenix Tap, and toward heaven gazed the lonely Dragon, a monument to Ranma's tenacity and Akane's rebirth.

#

"If you guys want to defeat Saffron, you'll need to understand who and what he is."

Before six columns of Sorcerers, Ranma paced, arms crossed behind his back. The day was bright and clear. Far below them, the thousand springs shimmered in noonday light, but Ranma and the Sorcerer Guard stayed above. They convened in a small, rocky clearing amidst sparse woods. The Sorcerers faced the mountain, and Ranma, their instructor for this day, looked out, over his students and the grounds beyond.

"Saffron is an egotistical little man-child who doesn't know his own limits. Now, I don't know what kind of punishment you guys can take, but this?" Ranma yanked a rock the size of his head from the ground. "I play table tennis with this. Saffron, on the other hand, can't take a little beating to save his life."

The Sorcerer Guard stared.

"You guys don't even know what table tennis is, do you."

"Do not digress," said Kohl, watching from a rock behind Ranma.

"I ain't digressing; I'm trying to make a point. It's just you guys don't understand the words that are coming out of my mouth."

"But we do."

"No, it's—" Ranma stopped himself. "Never mind. Point is Saffron's a giant, flying pansy. Brute, physical force will be your best weapon against him, but you'll need good defense, too. Saffron can throw fireballs of any size. He'll fly to get better position against you and even rip off his own wings and light them on fire to use as weapons. The heat he can generate is enormous, so anything that can melt or go aflame can be his tool."

Kohl stepped forward and addressed his men. "Groups of four will spar around the mountain. Emphasis will be placed on physical strength and use of environmental objects as weapons. In addition, group leaders will execute drills using cold magic. Ice should prove effective, both against Saffron himself and the tribesmen he commands."

"You really think that's necessary?" said Ranma. "Using ice when Saffron can melt it off himself?"

The captain glared. "It will still be useful against his minions."

"If you say so."

"You didn't use this tactic?"

"I can't make a blizzard out of thin air."

"No," said Kohl. "You can't." He tapped his staff twice on the hard mountain rock, and the company dispersed, column by column, treading into the wild.

"Well," said Ranma. "You don't need me for this, do you?"

"You should stay and watch, at least once with each group."

"Fine, fine." He fell into step behind Kohl. "Not like I'm eager to bend over for water that recedes when I get close to it."

Kohl huffed. Bracing himself on his staff, he pressed the tip to the ground, like a walking stick. A bizarre partnership this was, between him and the outsider, but it proved effective: Ranma's knowledge of the Phoenix directed their training, and Kohl's command of magic and techniques focused the Guard on the right tactics for victory.

"I do have to admit," Ranma had said once, "I always knew I'd start teaching people sometime or other. I just didn't think it would be here, with your men. Strange how that works out."

Strange indeed. Kohl strolled around the mountain, sidestepping the boulders his men shattered with the power of their minds. Though pleased with these results, Kohl harbored doubts. He doubted the wisdom of coming to this place, the mountain and the thousand springs. Sure, the peak was a better training ground, one they needn't share with palace visitors and attendants. That much stood to reason; they had more time and space to train this way—room to practice footwork and projecting auras, days and nights to hear tales of the Phoenix King and how he behaved in battle.

But who was it they listened to? Saotome Ranma, the outsider who defeated Saffron.

A puzzling honor … yet, on balance, Kohl realized it shouldn't surprise him so. Ranma was capable, but he was also lucky—lucky enough to muster beams of ki from both depression and courage, and within seconds of each other at that. He beat Kohl. How could the Captain of the Guard, in the body he was born with, let an untrained outsider catch him unaware?

That part made the least sense. The common people of the village grew up accustomed to magic. They plowed the fields with it. They reaped grain in the autumn and built the Lady's grand tower, yet these feats couldn't compare to the power of the Sorcerer Guard. Warriors in training must learn to control the flow of ki precisely, akin to a swordsman splitting a human hair.

And they must learn to be comfortable with their bodies, the bodies they were born with, bodies they lived in only until a nursemaid dipped them in the sacred spring.

Kohl tugged on his tunic—a simple stitched fabric, maroon on the inside, black on the out. In life, duality. Two lives he lived: one as advisor to Sindoor, a palace attendant; the other as the Lady's captain, a warrior. The tunic fit him loosely, sagging at the waist. It was too large for this slender frame and too small for the body he preferred, yet so it was for Kohl, and so it would be for all the people of the tribe, year after year, as the children grew. Inevitably, some of them wished to serve the village, to sacrifice the protection of the spring's magic, to take on the burden of being human. The blessed forms the spring gave them bestowed another power as well: security from the eddies of ki around them. Why this was Kohl couldn't say, but it was fact. Fact enough that while the captain could summon a fireball to her will, the advisor could make little more than a fragile ember.

The Lady had said it herself. "This outsider, Saotome Ranma, defeated you while in her true form. And you, Captain Kohl, fought in the body you were born with. Does that not speak to an exceptional power, too?"

A power, perhaps. Exceptional?

Some distance away, Ranma intruded on a training session, hopping between hurled boulders. "Come on, you guys call that a wall of rocks? Put your backs into it. Show me what you've got!"

How could any "exceptional" power come with such immaturity? Taunts and jibes, bold insults—an adult the outsider was not, and if the bulk of Japanese martial artists behaved this way, Kohl hoped never to meet another.

Moving on from exercises with rocks, Kohl's men turned to cold magic. With a simple touch, they spawned great structures of ice: sharp, narrow lances to attack with; wide sheets to protect themselves. Gusts of frigid wind froze a rock in clear crystal. And Ranma, for his part, stood alongside the Sorcerers. He closed his eyes and pressed his hand to the air, as if to bend the cold to his will, too.

That was the problem with Ranma: he wouldn't quit or surrender. He didn't have the good sense to yield. Not here, among the grounds, when Kohl cornered him under a landslide, nor back home, in the Lady's tower. Though a staff pressed down on his throat, crushing his windpipe, he battled. He even dictated terms.

Ranma tapped on the air with his pointer finger, and a thin film of ice spread from his touch.

Maybe that's why Ranma beat Kohl—despite the odds, he never gave in.

No matter. Given another chance to fight freely, Kohl would obliterate the poor, lost creature from this earth if he could, if the Lady would permit it. Someone who dared stand against the captain should breathe no longer, even if that girl in the rain did pull her opponent from the jagged, hard earth.

And though Kohl doubted, at one time, whether Ranma had beaten Saffron too, the evidence around him told the truth of the tale. The legendary Phoenix and Dragon Taps lay exposed and broken. Rivers of magma froze in streams along the mountainside, like the tears of a despondent god, leaving smoothed trails behind. And what wasn't visible to the eye Kohl felt on his skin and in his heart of hearts—the echo of some powerful energy, etched onto the Taps' crater.

The remnant of a great sin. Anger, Kohl guessed. The fury of a defeated warrior, who summons the last of his strength to retreat and fight another day. When Ranma defeated Saffron, the Phoenix King would rightly take offense, resent that he couldn't use the waters of Jusenkyō to transform into his people's hope and light. Even if the battle brought water back to Mount Phoenix, the wound of that defeat would live on.

Uphill, the head of the Phoenix Tap poked above the opening, the lip of the crater.

_Yes,_ thought Kohl. _If the outsider did defeat Saffron, that must be where he delivered the final blow._

Not that Ranma said much about it. Sometimes, on their strolls about the mountain, overseeing the training of the Guard, Kohl and Ranma happened across the remnants of that epic battle—claw marks across a rock face, a half-melted boulder—yet Ranma downplayed the affair. "It wasn't anything special," Ranma had said, kicking his shoes against the dirt. "The punk kid was going to take our cures away. Couldn't let that happen."

"But the process was reversible," said Kohl.

"Didn't matter. He picked a fight with us. He hurt…" Ranma shuddered, balling his hand to a fist. "He hurt a friend of mine, and he laughed it off like it was some sick joke."

That much Kohl could understand—respect, even—but more than this Ranma wouldn't say, and Kohl didn't ask. Perhaps, on balance, that should've put him ill at ease. Though he possessed a blow-by-blow account of Ranma's battle with Saffron (how a stray fragment of rock wandered into Saffron's fireball, saving Ranma; how he punched blindly, into the fire, and landed the Heaven Blast against a foe he couldn't spot or see), Kohl knew little of why. What brought this Japanese boy to square against the Phoenix King? His obsession for a cure?

It could be enough. Kohl noticed it every day: once Ranma devoured his lunch, he jogged down to the spring ground, weaving between the bamboo shoots. "You don't know how long I'd dreamed of this moment," he'd said. "I was here, just a couple weeks ago. I stood at the edge. The Guide pointed out where it should be, but now, I can't find it again." He laughed, letting his arms flop at his side. "Can you believe it? I don't know where the damn spring is. I mean, I can see tufts of grass that I thought were there, but now I'm not sure. I know there were poles you must've nicked or bent when you attacked me, but I can't find them. I don't read Chinese. My cure is _right here_, and I just don't know which spring it's in. Don't suppose I should just take a dip and see what happens, huh?"

When Ranma walked away, shaking his head, Kohl yanked a weed from the ground. With his knife, he cut down a bamboo shaft for good measure. Through simple tricks, he confused Ranma, and on his orders, the channelers hid the Spring of Drowned Man in plain sight—a small illusion, as much as their efforts could spare, but it was enough. Whatever Ranma wanted, Kohl couldn't permit even an outsider to reject the blessing of the springs, a blessing that, Kohl realized, could take many more forms than the single pool in the village. The sacred spring made the villagers better people, yet most of these springs seemed to rob their victims of all humanity. This Kohl knew, for the Guide kept texts on the springs, a library of all his predecessors' knowledge. The books told of frogs and piglets and demon gods. The Sorcerers' spring kept the darkness of men's hearts in check; what purpose did these thousand others serve?

"You're a fool if you think these pools mean something."

Late in the day, when their training was done, the Sorcerer Guard retired to the barracks, but Kohl had his own lodging. He made his home in the house of the Guide, and there, outside the tea room, Ranma leaned on a doorframe, watching him.

"Something falls in, the water make everything else take its shape," said Ranma. "Man or woman or beast. That's just how it is. There ain't no divine plan in it. There's just whatever was so unlucky to go over the edge."

Easy enough for an outsider to say. This pigtailed girl who thought she knew so much couldn't feel the ripples, but they affected her. They affect everything. They bind all life to them. Even the souls of the dead can return to their bodies, given the right impulse or drive. The flows of ki were a great force of nature, and the sacred spring of the village protected the weak, the sinful, from themselves. If the Sorcerers could use this magic to their advantage, wouldn't others?

"Oh yeah, just ask the Musk," said Ranma. "I'm sure they still need women."

Taking his eyes off the wide window, Kohl shut his book, _A History of the Thousand Springs_. From a smooth, porcelain kettle, he poured another cup of tea, steaming liquid with a dark green tint. Though his men cleaned up the rubble from their exercises, Kohl's mind was all but clear. Another day, and his questions went unanswered. What were they doing here, on this mountain, so far from home?

Kohl'd said it himself. "You only wish to separate me from Tilaka," he told Sindoor, and indeed, she didn't deny it. Nor would he apologize for it.

_There's only so much one person can be asked to do,_ he reasoned. _Even if it means a thousand must suffer a little, battle their own demons for a change, we shouldn't ask for endless sacrifice, not from Tilaka._

He closed his eyes. _Not when I sinned, too._

The Lady punished both of them, for together they sinned that night, eight years ago, at the edge of the sacred spring. Trainees in the Sorcerer Guard they were, forbidden to make their true names and forms known, but temptation found their hearts. With cold water they doused themselves. They told one another both their names. And what they did beyond that…

That was a sin, too—a sin so powerful that the Sieve before, high in the Lady's tower, wept and cried, unable to hold in the village's yearnings any longer. Thus, the village needed another.

Tilaka became the Sieve that day.

And what of Kohl? He watched the priests break his friend. To be Sieve is to be the void, to feel what everyone else feels, in the hope those emotions will block out your own. Kohl watched from the small, darkened observation room as the priests delved into Tilaka's mind and soul. He listened to the boy's screams and tantrums, and he did nothing. The Lady forbade him from interfering, and he abode her will. He became the captain, the advisor. She rewarded him and bade others say his name with honor and respect. The Lady knew how to punish her people—not always with whips or sticks or needles. An unjust reward can wound equally well. Given the chance to atone for years of cowardice, of silence, Kohl went to Tilaka, and not for a moment did he regret it, even if it did conflict with his duty.

Duty again. He looked about the room—the wide window, the low table. A bright room with plaster and white walls of the Guide's abandoned abode. Is this what it meant to do one's duty? To go among foreign places and pretend they were home? So many strange things in this cliffside house—the benefits, no doubt, of modern technology. Boxes that light up with the push of a button, homes for miniature people inside. Corded things with spinning faces and detachable handles.

"It's called a phone," said Ranma. "You pick up the receiver and turn the rotary to dial a number."

Kohl stared.

"You talk to people with it, even if they're far away."

He held the receiver to his ear. "I don't hear anyone."

"Well, you haven't even dialed a number." Ranma took the receiver and listened. "Strange. Should at least be a dial tone or an operator or something. Guess that storm knocked out all the lines."

"Lines?"

"Yeah, there have to be phone lines connecting the house to—" He frowned. "Well, I mean, I guess there's that new wireless stuff, so there don't _have_ to be lines."

Kohl stared again.

"It's probably not important." Ranma put the phone on the hook. "You wouldn't know anybody's number anyway."

_Strange,_ thought Kohl. _These people—they're not satisfied with the company around them, so they talk to others far away as a matter of course? _

As if burning incense to commune with the Lady were any different. Maybe not a matter of course, but of necessity, sure. Even across long distances, people need knowledge from others, connections to the outside world.

_Connections…_ Kohl looked about.

Ranma was gone.

"Guards!" said Kohl. "The outsider—where did she go?"

Blank stares and excuses. The men scoured the house, finding only a half-open window.

"Let her starve on her own if she chooses," said one of the men. "She cannot escape the Maze."

Through the window, a set of black cables draped over wooden poles, running down the mountain.

"She can if she has something point the path out," said Kohl.

#

All in all, Ranma preferred stealth and a low profile, but he knew, sooner or later, the Sorcerers would discover his escape. A team of Guardsmen chasing at his heels he expected.

A volley of boulders, like a renegade meteor shower falling down around him? Not so much.

"You guys are a little nuts, you know that?"

BAM! A ten-ton stone plowed into a spring, flinging earth and cursed water in the air.

"Right! Guessing you don't care so much!"

Under the fading sun, Ranma dashed across the spring ground, weaving between the springs. Swirling winds kicked up a cursed spray, and the air tingled, crackling with energy.

BOOM! A bolt of lightning charred a shaft of bamboo, setting it aflame.

_Damn flashy bastards! You think you can do anything you please! Well, you can't keep me here. If you thought I'd just sit and play nice while you make war, you thought wrong! _

He looked to his left. The string of utility poles, stuck in the narrow gaps between springs, extended from the mountain to the edge of the grounds.

_And that's my ticket out: something I know that has to go in a straight line._

Clearing the last springs, Ranma planted his feet and leapt atop the telephone pole. Vicious winds threatened his balance, but he held out his arms and tiptoed over the wires. "Child's play," he said. "This is easier than the fence-top back home."

At his back, the legion of Sorcerers descended the mountain, hovering over the spring ground like gods on their way down from heaven.

_Like I said, always flashy. Well, time to go! _

He ran along the cables, the path that, if he were right, would let him cut through the illusion before him, the channelers' maze.

_And if it ain't a simple mind trick, well, then I'm just—_

KA-PAM! The pole exploded; a fireball severed the lines and strewed burning wood along the edge of the grounds.

Ranma spun, rolling on impact, and squared himself on his feet. He patted out the embers on his clothes, but safety was second on his mind.

_Is there still…? _

The line of telephone poles halted at the trees. The cables dangled, inert and limp.

_Dammit._

"Did you think we'd just let you escape?" The captain, Wuya, pressed forward, holding him at the tip of her staff.

Ranma clenched his fists, steeling himself. "Did you think I wouldn't try?"

"We had an agreement."

"Surprisingly, I don't take well to 'agreements' forced on me."

"This was your doing."

"No, it was my only choice."

Wuya circled behind him, jabbing with the staff point. "Back," she said.

"How about this instead." He grabbed the staff; he yanked!

Thud! Their skulls collided, clanking like metal on metal.

_That's gonna leave a mark._

The captain staggered, dazed, but her company of Sorcerers approached, staves at the ready.

"You want to bring it?" said Ranma. "Bring it!"

They lowered their points; they charged!

"Oh no you don't!" Ranma thrust his hand forward, and a wall of ice formed at the palm. It enveloped him, shielded him.

CRACK!

Staves snapped and splintered. The Sorcerers slashed at the barrier, with their bare hands when needed. They summoned heat to melt the ice away, but though water dripped from the surface, the wall held.

"Sucks, doesn't it," said Ranma, "when your prey can use the same magic you can." He twirled the staff in his open hand and stood ready. Defense might protect him for a while, but to beat dozens of these Sorcerers? When lightning struck all around him? How could he—

"Urk!" A poisoned blade drew blood from his thigh.

How could he forget the captain behind him…

The ice shattered, and among the shards and fragments Ranma fell to the ground, drowsy, relaxed. "Couldn't you at least cut the other leg next time?"

And so the Sorcerers dragged Ranma away, back toward the mountain, safe and hidden behind the channelers' maze, and those outside—animals, passers-by—would be none the wiser.

Save for the top half of a burning telephone pole, flung outside the illusion. Patrolling the rim of the grounds, a team of four girls, women warriors, happened upon this remnant, the only evidence of a battle they neither saw nor heard, but it was enough. It was proof: the thousand springs hadn't merely disappeared in warped space or illusion. Their enemy lay within.

The Amazons headed back for their village—not as scouts but messengers, harbingers, of the coming war.

* * *

**Next:** Dishonored and silenced, Shampoo can make only one more plea to convince the Elders of her sincerity. When word of Ranma's fate reaches the village, can Cologne reverse the Council's decision and do something to save him? **The finale to "Journey to Jusenkyō" - The Last Right - Coming in two weeks: May 28, 2010.**

Yes, I will be on vacation and away from the internet next week, so the next installment will be delayed. I'm hoping, however, that this extra buffer time will ensure I can stay largely on pace and maintain the steady posting of new acts. At the time of this writing, chapter four, act four, is nearly finished, and I'm confident I can tweak and outline chapters five, six, and seven over vacation, which will finalize the plan for the rest of book one.

Anyway, I look forward to any reviews and comments when I return.

_For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com._


	18. Journey VI: The Last Right

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** The Council of Elders has silenced Shampoo. Mute to all but her family, she watches, helpless to save Ranma, helpless to reclaim lost honor, and the time for battle against the Sorcerers is nigh.

* * *

**The Last Right**

_Chapter Three Finale_

Night. The campfires of the village flickered and burned, carving small beacons of light from the midnight shadows. The Amazons danced about these fires, retelling the legends of ancient victories. Their motions were like the choreography to a play, a musical, and indeed, a story without the dance wasn't a story at all. The tournament would start by moon's wane, and the warriors of the village armed themselves for a war, one that might come at any moment. Thus, there was much reason to chant and sing. The tournament would decide who could best defend the people, and it stood to reason that, if the Amazons did go to war, some of them might never return. For these things the Amazons spoke their history to the beat of a drum, the rhythm and pattern of time itself. In tradition, there was comfort.

But not for Shampoo.

From her doorstep, she gazed into the darkness, watching her brothers and sisters dance, but her feet were still.

"You aren't prohibited from joining the festivities," Cologne had said. "This punishment only extends to your words and who may speak to you."

To have the other families stare her down, flee from her like oil from a drop of water?

"Granted, knowing how you'll be treated, the proposition is unattractive." Cologne had paced about the path to the house, pondering. "We _will_ find some way to undo this. You know that, don't you?"

"Why? If the Sorcerers kill Ranma, if he's already dead, I'll have failed."

"You can't be held accountable for a husband who dies before you can marry him."

"I'll have failed _him_."

"Ah."

"And if Ranma comes back, then like the Council says, he won't take me. I'll be dishonored either way. The cause doesn't matter."

"This melancholy doesn't become you, child."

"Why not? This is what you wanted, isn't it? I should be realistic. I should see the truth in front of my face. Isn't that so?"

Cologne eyed her carefully but said nothing. She left the girl on the stoop in silence.

_That's right. Leave me be, Great-grandmother. Leave me in the dark, in quiet._

She held one of her chúi by her hip and twirled it, end over end.

_These other girls, my sisters in the tribe—they'll be like me soon. They'll go out, into the world, looking for strong men to make the tribe better. And some of these girls will seduce those men and bring them back, but some of them won't. Not everyone can succeed._

The Elders decreed it—the need for outside talent and seed. The Elders silenced her.

_No. This may be their doing, but it's not their fault._

She twirled the chúi once more. She twisted the handle, turning her wrist. Down, in, up, out. A smooth, rhythmic motion, perfect, precise.

Flawless.

She headed inside, into the black. The dining room table was empty; the house was silent. "Better to sleep now and prepare for battle tomorrow." That's what Cologne said, and all their guests, the Japanese contingent, obeyed her words, at least for now.

Everybody obeyed Cologne; they took her words for the truth at hand. She wrote letters back home, to their family, and what did she say? Shampoo had no chance with Ranma? Shampoo had miscalculated, condemning herself to dishonor?

_No,_ thought Shampoo. _This isn't Great-grandmother's fault either. Private is private. The Council surprised her. Maybe she did think I couldn't win Ranma, not anymore, but she didn't always feel that way. She helped me. We tried hard to make Ranma come back with us._

Down, in, up, out. She tiptoed over the steps, sneaking to the upper floor. In one room, a duck, piglet, and panda lay in the ruins of bunk beds, the three not knowing how to share nicely. In another, Shampoo's father lay motionless, at peace, for what dishonor she incurred was well beyond his power to fix. In a third room, Kuonji Ukyō took the further of a pair of twin beds, but in the nearer…

_It's not my fault, either. I did my best. I did everything that mattered. I showed him my body and what pleasures it could hold. I made him touch me, so he'd see he wanted what I could offer. Great-grandmother taught him powers he might never have imagined. I did everything right, but none of it mattered, not while _she_ was there, not while she lived with him in the same house._

Shampoo twirled her chúi, standing in the hall before Akane's bed, and though the Tendō girl tossed and slammed on her mattress, Shampoo stepped closer. Her eyes narrowed.

_Why? You never showed him your love, but I know—we both know—you want him like I do. You can't stand beside him, so why should he want you? What do you offer him that I don't? _

Down, in, up, out. Shampoo shook the thought from her mind. It was far too late to wonder what she could've done differently, what special trait or secret Akane used to keep Ranma close to her even through the most titanic spat. Whatever bound them together was like an elastic band—though they could kick and shout and scream, pushing away, the band pulled back, and after a fashion, they wouldn't resist. They'd fall into each other's arms, like they did at Jusendō.

_You are obstacle. You are for killing. What can Ranma do to punish me now? I'm already dishonored. He can only take my life; he can't bring you back, not again._ She tugged on the string of quartz around her neck. _Even with _this_, no one will question me if I kill you. The tribe understands. That is our way._

She rested the chúi on the floor. Great-grandmother said it herself: snap Akane's neck in the night, when no one will notice or know until morning. It might not sate a heart of rage, but even that Shampoo couldn't trust, not anymore. Her heart had always told her Ranma would be hers. It led her to believe a fantasy, a lie. Knowing that, Shampoo could be content with an act of utmost simplicity, something no one, not even her, would mistake—the popping of vertebrae as they snapped out of alignment. One sharp twist, and it'd all be over.

Tap. A sharp, metallic edge pressed on the back of her neck. "Make another move, and I'll cut your head clean off."

Shampoo's eyes darted to the far bed. Sure enough, the covers lay empty.

"Spatula girl more sneaky than Shampoo think."

"It comes in handy. You think I'd honestly let you murder Akane-chan in her sleep? You're lower than I thought." Ukyō circled to the side, her battle spatula pressuring Shampoo's neck. "Move. Away from the bed. Go."

Shampoo tiptoed, backpedaling to the hallway. "You Akane's protector now?"

"You might say that."

"Why? Akane not good for both of us. Akane is Ranma's favorite. She take his heart and leave none for us."

"I draw the line at murder."

"Oh? Ukyō seem ready to hurt Akane at wedding. We both have same idea."

"Please. I didn't mean for anyone to get seriously hurt."

Shampoo turned. The edge of the spatula pressed on her throat, but this perspective was better. Now, she could meet Ukyō's eyes, play on her own wants and doubt.

"That what Ukyō tell herself now?" She smirked. "Okonomiyaki have just as much gunpowder as pork buns, and Shampoo no care if Akane too hurt to have wedding."

"Shut up!"

Ukyō pushed forward, forcing Shampoo to her back foot. Calming herself, Ukyō checked over her shoulder, where Akane still lay sleeping. She lowered her voice, talking in hushed whispers.

"You shut up," said Ukyō. "Ranchan made me promise I wouldn't let Akane-chan get hurt, and I'm fulfilling that."

"So that what it is. You love Ranma so much, you willing to watch as he kiss Akane? Watch while she bear his children? Watch while they make life together without you?"

"I said nothing like that."

"Some people say they would, but that not love. That what losers tell selves, so they no have to feel pain of rejection. You want lose Ranma for good?"

"Of course not!"

"Then what Ukyō do? Say Ranma found tomorrow. When he come to this house and hold Akane instead of us, what Ukyō do?"

Gritting her teeth, Ukyō slid her top hand up the length of the spatula and shoved Shampoo from the room, clear against the back wall of the corridor.

"Get out of here," she said. "Get out now, or I'll wake Akane-chan, and it'll be two-on-one."

Dusting herself off, Shampoo pressed forward, but only far enough to retrieve her chúi and be on her way. Ukyō, too, was right in her own way: against both of them, Shampoo wouldn't win, not without waking the rest of the house. Mousse, Ryōga, Genma. They could all move to stop her.

_Ukyō. Is she really content to let Ranma go? Everyone just wants to give in._

Down, in, up, out. Shampoo twirled her favorite weapon again, heading back downstairs, to her own room. She fingered the gems around her neck, pensive, uncertain.

_Including me._

That night, Shampoo slept in amidst the void, empty, lifeless. To sleep is to be silent. To sleep dreamlessly is to be nothing, to disappear from the minds and hearts of people, whether they love you or not. Such is the fate of the fallen.

"Wake up, child."

Shampoo sat up, rubbing her eyes. Strange, it was, that on the night of her dishonor, she should sleep soundly, as if in the comforting hands of death itself.

"Come quickly; get dressed," said Cologne. "We can't afford to loiter."

"Oh?" She leaned back, letting her head touch the wall. "Why is that?"

"The Council is holding open chambers for the whole village."

"To punish me further?" asked Shampoo.

"No, child."

Cologne yanked the curtains away, revealing a crowd of villagers outside, gathering before a bonfire.

"The scouting party to the spring ground has returned."

#

"Truthfully," said Akane, "I can't see anything."

By the time the Nerima party scampered out the door, the crowd around the bonfire had swelled—to Shampoo's doorstep curious villagers pushed and shoved. They blocked out the fire; the only evidence of the meeting to come was the smoke in the distance.

"Well, I didn't think I'd say it, but I hope Saotome's lived somehow," said Mousse. "If it lifts this dishonor from your neck, Shampoo, I'd be willing to lose you forever." He made a face, realizing his mistake. "Well, maybe not forever, but for a very long time, I promise you."

"Be quiet," said Shampoo. "The Council forbids you from speaking to me."

The group hugged the edge of the crowd, circling for a better view. "Kin or no kin, I cannot abandon you!" said Mousse. "I'd accept any dishonor just to hear your voice."

Shampoo stuck her leg out, and Mousse faceplanted into the dirt.

"Hearing is fine," she said. "But _why_ must you keep talking?"

A walking stick thwacked Shampoo across the shin. "I should scold the both of you for these antics," said Cologne, "but it seems you've succeeded in attracting some attention."

Indeed, the crowd of villagers eyed Shampoo and the circle of red around her neck. They backed away from her like a woman infected with plague.

_That's right,_ thought Shampoo. _They want nothing to do with me, either._

"Well then," said Cologne, "if you must alienate my great-granddaughter, allow me to take advantage." With a bold step, she waded inward, toward the center, and the travelers from Tōkyō followed. The gap opened until, three rows back from center, wiser villagers realized they could shelter their pride or hear the scouts up-close, not both. Satisfied with this vantage point, Cologne hopped onto Genma's shoulders, so she too could watch unhindered. Despite the dead spot of silence around the party, the villagers as a whole clamored for news, chattering, restless.

"These Elders of yours sure take their time," said Ukyō.

"Yes," said Cologne. "They feed on this attention. It makes them feel important."

As important as a cleared path to the fire could make anyone feel. Down this new aisle, four girls marched, bows strapped over their shoulders.

"Those are the scouts," said Cologne. "Their commander, Marula, walks in the lead. A fine warrior she is, only a year younger than Shampoo, and almost as promising."

Marula and her girls lined up at the fire—the leader alone, her three subordinates centered behind her. There they stood as the twelve in robes filed in, their pace slow and sure.

"And now come the Elders, suitably late to make the people demand their presence," said Cologne. "First the Nine, then the Three. The Three are always last."

The Silent Nine formed a semicircle around the fire, standing in groups of three. The Speakers took positions before them, removing their hoods. Only their faces and the scouts' could be seen. Surma tossed cloth onto the fire, and Bindi raised her head high, calling to the crowd.

"She says the Council is ready to hear the scouts' testimony," said Cologne, "of what they found at Jusenkyō."

Marula bowed once to the fire and the Speakers. Then, she addressed the crowd, and for the benefit of their Japanese guests, Cologne narrated, word-for-word.

" 'Six days ago we set out from the village at the Council's request. We hiked toward the spring ground for every minute it was light; we wasted as little time as we needed to hunt and gather food, to find water to replace what we gave back to the plateau. We arrived at the grounds by noon of the second day. What we found, we did not expect.

" 'Like the illusion that guards the Sorcerers' village, the spring ground is hidden in a barrier of ki. I have only heard of this trickery before—never had I seen it myself—but I know it from my teachers. One cannot walk past a certain point but be lost within the forest, where earth and sky twist to confuse you. In vain, we attacked this barrier as best we could. We tied ropes to one another and ventured in, but none of us could find the way to the thousand springs. When all seemed lost, however, we spotted a sign.' "

Down the open aisle, two warriors lugged a charred, cylindrical piece of wood.

" 'We found this, the remains of a utility pole, burning outside the illusion. Many remnants of this pole we discovered. They flew at great speed, littering the woods. The explosion that propelled them from the illusion was fresh. Even now, as we speak, there may be a battle for the springs, one that we can't aid in or see.' "

"That's Ranma," said Akane. "That's him—it has to be! He's fighting back!"

"Precious little we can do about it from here," said Ukyō.

By the fire, the speakers took turns questioning the scouts.

"If I may," said Konatsu, "what are they saying now?"

"Minor details concerning the account," said Cologne. "The Speakers are considering what the best course is from here."

The crowd started chanting, pumping their fists to the sky. Their collective voice drowned out the Speakers and the scouts, and in a haste, Bindi shoved dirt over the bonfire, extinguishing the flame.

"She is too proud to let the people tell her what to do," said Cologne. "Bindi will hold a closed session of the Council, but the course of our people is clear. The Amazons go to war this day; the people demand it. I expect a war party to leave at dawn tomorrow."

"And they're supposed to save Ranma, is that it?" asked Ryōga.

Cologne pursed her lips. "That I can't guarantee. If it's convenient, I imagine so. If, after all this time, Ranma has escaped or is fighting the Sorcerers somehow, that will help."

"I don't think I like that," said Ukyō. "If your people don't really care about Ranma, we should strike out on our own."

"Indeed, I doubt the Council will look kindly on you joining the first party," said Cologne. "But, perhaps it is a day to be surprised. I can see no harm in waiting for the final decision. If we must independent of the tribe, we should trail in their wake, and only push beyond them if we must. As distasteful as I find the notion, my people can be the distraction we need to rescue Ranma."

The crowd of villagers dispersed, and the Nerima party headed back to Shampoo's home, eager for the Council's final judgment.

All, that was, except for Shampoo and Cologne. "Great-grandmother," said the younger of their line, "may I speak?"

In the shadows of the cliff above them, Cologne assented, and the two of them circled to the privacy of the back of the house. "Yes, child, what is it?"

Shampoo looked back on the embers of the bonfire. "I don't want other warriors of the tribe saving Ranma."

"Please. If you mean to let him die—"

"No! I want to be the one who saves him."

Cologne sighed. "You must know this to be impossible."

"Why?"

"You have been _silenced_, child. Need I remind you of the weight of that dishonor?"

She pulled on the necklace, the string of red jade that rendered her mute to all others. "Great-grandmother said she would do whatever it took to lift this chain from my neck. Was it not so?"

"Given the gravity of what Bindi did, there is a chance, yes, but you expect them to honor the Last Right? I don't know what you can say that will convince them you're his wife. I don't know how you can convince them of something that isn't true!"

"It _is_ true! I love Ranma!" Tears streamed down her face, dripping on the ground. "Whether he loves me back or not."

"Love is a mutual thing," said Cologne. "Please, don't confuse this adolescent infatuation with love."

"He can love me! If I'm the one who rescues him, won't he love me? How can he not?" She shuddered, shivering, cold. "Why doesn't he?"

"Believe me; I know this must be painful, even if I can never know exactly what you feel at this moment, but you must understand—the Council will _never_ let you assert the Right, not now. We must make the most of what the gods give us now. Let the warriors fight a war. Let us go after Ranma in our own way. Isn't that enough?"

"Does Great-grandmother really think she and I can save Ranma when our people mean to start a war? When they will march to the spring ground and kill everything that fights back?"

Cologne grimaced. "I admit, this bloodthirst is unhealthy. Have twenty years of waiting really turned our pained memories into a hunger for vengeance? A demand for recompense on behalf of the dead?"

"It's no different from you."

The family matriarch jerked in surprise. "Excuse me?"

"You'd do anything for Mother's sister," said Shampoo. "You did do anything, and everything, to find out what happened to her."

Cologne narrowed her eyes. "I've warned you about using that name lightly. Do not make me warn you again!"

"_Ranma_ is that name for me. I am like you, Great-grandmother. I do anything to win Ranma. I do anything to save him. I can't speak before the Council again—they won't hear me—but you can! You can tell them I should be going. You can tell them because it's right. You can try. I don't know if they'll listen, but you can try." She put her hand to the outside wall, letting her weight settle against it. "That's all I ask—that you try."

"As if to make it sound any easier!" Cologne scoffed. "You think I can convince the Council when they know—" She stopped. "They know everything."

"Great-grandmother?"

"Excuse me, child. I think…" She grinned. "I think the Council knows too much for their own good."

#

On their lonely ledge, the Elders of the Amazons huddled by their fire. Removing their hoods, the Twelve spoke freely, debating the question at hand. Though unable to vote in the final decision, the Speakers dominated the conversation, for habit silenced the Nine when the Three spoke.

"If we must send a war party," said Bindi, "we should determine its objective. We do not make total war against Sorcerers, or we shouldn't without ascertaining their goals. The spring ground lies not within our lands, and while the Sorcerers may pose a threat, we must still ask the question—"

"Why do you persist in commandeering this Council for your whims?" Walking stick in hand, Cologne cleared a weed from her path, entering the circle of twelve. Panicking, the Silent Nine covered their faces in shadow, and Bindi herself huffed with haughty disdain.

"You dare intrude our deliberations?" she said. "This is a grave offense, Cologne. The faces of the Nine should not be seen in chambers!"

"Oh do shut up, Bindi. Your arrogance only annoys me. I know the faces of all but two of you, and I knew them well before I set foot on these grounds again. Let us dispense with the pretensions and get to the heart of the matter, shall we? Using my private letters to discredit Shampoo—were my reports to this body insufficient?"

"Perhaps. It was based on your reports that we took possession of these letters." She fanned out the envelopes, eying them strangely. "Might we find some serious discrepancies between them? If you withheld information from this Council, I can assure you—you will be censured, just as your great-granddaughter was."

"Your threats do not frighten me," said Cologne. "In fact, they only save me the trouble of proving something you could've easily denied. Instead, you allow me to continue my argument unhindered." She held out a piece of newsprint. "Do you know what this is?"

"I do not."

"Speakers Thanaka, Surma? Do you know what this is?"

Thanaka leaned in, donning a pair of glasses. "It's a clipping from the _Monthly_. All members of the tribe abroad are entitled to a copy."

"Indeed," said Cologne. "This copy is from some months past. In it, Shampoo took an interview with a journalist, addressing her 'marriage' to Ranma and how they'd founded a restaurant in Tōkyō. A most unwise course of action, as I told her then, but she persisted, and it attracted some old enemies of Shampoo's to Nerima. We dealt with them, but this newspaper still remains."

"More proof of her deception," said Bindi. "I fail to see how this is relevant."

"You're correct; it is proof, but not of Shampoo's deception. Rather, it is proof of _yours_."

"You dare make an accusation before this Council?"

"You're saying you do not read the reports you requested of me? Choose your words carefully, First Speaker. Do you want to appear ignorant or deceitful?"

Bindi scoffed. "You are the one who should be careful, Cologne. A poorly-worded remark on your part may warrant dishonor beyond censure!"

"Your threats do not frighten me. You _knew_ Shampoo was disseminating a lie; as hopeful as I was at the time, I knew it not to be true, and I told you so. Your inaction, your failure to stop it, makes you complicit in that lie! And what crime is more heinous than one of the tribe lying to this Council? The Council lying to its people!"

"Cologne," said Surma, "you can't expect us to intervene in personal affairs so much that we challenge every questionable truth we hear."

"No, I don't." Cologne stared Bindi down. "But when this body uses a teenage girl's fanciful exaggerations against her, when one woman keeps that secret to advance her agenda? Those are crimes I expect of reckless youth, of those who know no better, not someone of ninety years' experience on this earth! Knowing what you knew, you had no business hearing Shampoo's argument, yet you allowed my petition to proceed, merely so you could savagely strike her down. You ensnared her, and for what? A pretentious game to assuage your ego?"

Clearing her throat, Cologne faced the Silent Nine.

"If any of you have a sense of honor, of justice, of law that is unwritten but that we should still follow, you will relieve Shampoo of her dishonor. You will expunge it from any record. Years ago, this Council set law for the tribe, decreed that all girls like Shampoo must seek an outsider man who can defeat her and make him a husband. To the best of her ability, Shampoo has sought to follow the law; the law _you_ have set and maintained. Give her one more chance to make good on it. Let her lead the war party, wherever it may go, so a girl can save the man she's meant to marry."

"And jeopardize our safety, our survival, for one stranger boy?" said Thanaka. "You ask too much of us, Cologne."

"I ask too much?" She laughed; she cackled. "I ask too much of you, young Thanaka? Let me tell you the truth of things, child—the only person I've ever asked too much of was my granddaughter when I told her to marry that Sorcerer and make peace between the tribes! This Council is the same as when I left it! Impotent! Paralyzed! Confined by dogma and the will of three voices! Are you so drunk with power that you spit upon all reason to get your way? I know few have spoken well of me in these chambers, but heed me now—I only voted to continue the war, despite everything. Maybe that was foolish, but all I ever did to further that was resign from this Council and speak. That was no crime. Perhaps what has been done here is no crime either, but ultimately, it is not your opinion that counts." She marched to the fire and slammed the point of her stick into the ground. "I ask the Nine to speak now, the only time the Nine may break their silence in open chambers. Do the Three speak for the Nine, or do they not?"

"Age has taken a toll on your mind," said Bindi. "You're a fool to think your petty tirade will overthrow the Speakers' authority."

"You have no authority," said Cologne. "You are Speakers, and you do not vote! Break out the ballots; prepare the bowls to collect them. If but one of the Nine seconds my motion, the vote must commence, and if the Three do not speak for the Nine, if their words do not reflect the will of the Council, then a new Three must be chosen. Then you will have nothing, Bindi. None of the power and prestige you covet; none of the respect that your voice now commands. You will be weak and old, and unlike me, you won't have left by choice."

Bindi scowled. "Your words mean nothing."

"Let us see, then. Let the Nine decide. I ask you again, Elders of the Council: do the Three speak for the Nine, or do they not? Come before the fire; present to me your sacred cloths. If they burn with but a hint of blue, then at least one of the Nine seconds my motion, and the vote must commence. Third Speaker!"

"Yes?" said Surma.

"Ready the ballots."

"You cannot be serious," said Bindi. "Never have the Nine rejected the Three!"

"Then I should like to see some history today. Surma, the ballots! Elders of the Nine, to me!"

One by one, the Elders came before Cologne, handing her their sacred voting cloths. Whether it would burn blue or white in the flame, no one could say but the Elder gave it. In this way, they voted anonymously, without fear of retribution for seconding the Cologne's will. With nine strips of cloth in hand, Cologne dangled them over the fire, watching Bindi's face.

"Well, First Speaker? What is the will of the Council?"

#

Two days later, among scattered tents and campfires, the Amazon war party roasted rabbits and fowl, their catch from the night's traps. Warriors sharpened axe and dagger. Bowmen dipped their arrowheads in the poisons of frogs. Yet amidst this commotion, the leader of the party stood still. She unclasped a necklace of red jade and rubbed her fingers over the gems. Though the Council had relieved her of any taint of dishonor, made her free to speak her mind and command the troops under her, she kept the choker of silence, a memento of her own, personal trial, and stuffed it into her pack.

"Do you really trust her, Akane-san?"

Tendō Akane brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, holding a steel pot over the fire. "I wouldn't put myself alone in a room with her, but … to save Ranma? Yes. I don't doubt Shampoo will do all she can for him. We all would."

"Then it's true." Hibiki Ryōga sat back, mulling over a cup of murky tea. "What you said, before we left…"

"That I love Ranma?"

He made a face.

"Yes, it's true. I know it may sound strange—"

"_Strange_ isn't the word!"

"And he can be so insensitive sometimes—"

"Sometimes?"

"But, he's really soft at heart. He's brave. He's strong. It takes a lot for him to show how much he cares. You just have to take all that pride and stubbornness and peel it away."

"So you're saying Ranma's a fruit."

"Well, he can be very sweet."

Ryōga closed his eyes, shaking his head.

"I know he's been mean to you," said Akane, touching his shoulder. "I know he antagonizes you, and I can't figure out why, but I still want to be your friend, Ryōga-kun, and I hope, someday, you and Ranma can be good friends, too."

He gave her a weak smile. "I'll try my best, Akane-san. And I promise, I'll stay with you as long as it takes to bring him back."

Akane smiled. "I'm glad. I know it must be a sacrifice on your part."

"Sacrifice?"

"To leave Akari," she said. "Don't you miss her?"

His face reddened. "Akari-chan and I aren't like that at all! We're just friends!"

"Come now; you can't fool me, Ryōga-kun."

"Eh?"

"Well…" She looked down, into the pot. "It's just … I've said those words, too."

A twig crunched behind them. "Ryōga, Akane."

The pair jerked from each other, startled. Standing over them, Shampoo folded her arms, a stern expression on her face.

"Finish eat quickly," she said. "Great-grandmother say party in Sorcerer illusion lost."

Carrying nuts and crackers, Ryōga and Akane followed Shampoo to camp's edge. The Amazons crouched behind logs and tree trunks, arrows pressed against their bowstrings. The sky clouded over. Faint embers fizzled, and a frigid wind rustled the the trees.

"I don't understand," said Akane, crouching behind a boulder. "What happened?"

"We sent another group of five into the illusion," said Cologne, "but the rope we used to tether them, so they could return…" She held the remnants of the braided cord; it frayed at the ends, black and charred. "If the Sorcerers have realized our presence, they can attack from that veil of magic and retreat with impunity. We should be cautious, Shampoo."

"We no leave Ranma. We stay until night."

Cologne shook her head. "Unwise."

Shampoo peered around a tree trunk. "Ukyō think we should retreat? Akane?"

"Hey, as much as I want to think Ranchan's in that bubble of theirs, we don't need to do anything stupid," said Ukyō.

"He _is_ in there," said Akane. "I can feel it."

Ukyō raised an eyebrow. "All I feel is the chill in the air."

A bow pulled taut. "Movement!"

Mousse let out a length of chain from his sleeves, and Shampoo rubbed the handles of her chúi together. From the thicket, the maze of trees, shadows stirred in the mist. Hands on their heads, five Amazons trudged back to camp, guided by the heavy iron tips of battle staves.

"Hold!" said Cologne. "They have our people; hold!"

The prisoners dropped to their knees. A Sorcerer for each held them at staff-point, and in the center, a girl stepped forward. She pressed the weight on her staff into her prisoner's neck and looked up, calling to her enemies.

"Who among you speaks for your people?" she said.

Shampoo looked to Cologne, who nodded in assent.

"I do," said the matriarch, bracing herself on her walking stick.

"Enter the Maze again, and your lives are forfeit," said the leader, the captain. "We are using the spring ground. Do not trespass."

"And if we have a quarrel with you?"

The captain frowned. "I don't know you. Why would we have a quarrel with you?"

"Do you not recognize us? Do you not know our armor, the tunics we wear?" Cologne hopped forward, eying the captain from head to toe. "You see, we know your people, child. We know well the weapons and colors of the Sorcerer Guard! Too many of my people have died at your hands."

"I have killed no one."

"Perhaps not. Perhaps, indeed, you are too young to have witnessed that battle, too young even to remember, but that doesn't make you innocent. You know of the River Warriors, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you tell stories to your children of how the Warriors invaded your lands, how they should suffer atrocities for a thousand years for that crime?"

"The outside is not our concern while the Maze protects us, while it protects the village. We have no quarrel with you. You will leave us be."

"I see. And this spring ground—we will leave it in your hands?"

"We have use for it."

"And Saotome Ranma?"

The captain flinched. "What?"

"Do you have use for him, too?"

Akane peered from her hiding place. "Can't you tell us what you've done with him? Isn't there something you want?"

"Don't waste your breath, Tendō," said Cologne. "They won't understand your language."

The captain met her gaze.

"Or do you?" Cologne pursed her lips, intrigued. "Well now, you must know Ranma then. You can't pretend he didn't protest. Tell me: how did you subdue him? He must've fought valiantly."

"Leave," said the captain. "Now."

"I think not. You seem to know much, young warrior, enough to risk my brothers and sisters to take you and find out just how much you know. Archers, fire!"

The prisoners ducked a volley of arrows, but the captain tapped her staff in the dirt.

BAM! A shockwave blasted a crater in the ground, knocking the arrows away and throwing the Amazon hostages into the forest, clear of the Maze.

"You will leave," said the captain, "or _we_ have a quarrel with _you_."

A thin veneer of frost enveloped the archers' bows. The Sorcerers left, disappearing into the Maze, and string and arrow fell to the ground, encased in ice.

"Let's go!" said Shampoo. "After them!"

"No! ' said Cologne. "Do not follow them into their territory. We have learned enough for now."

"You can't be serious!" said Ukyō, dusting herself off. "We're just going to let them walk away?"

"Patience, children. Patience." Cologne hobbled through the debris, shaking pebbles from her hair. "The Sorcerers have delivered their ultimatum. Now it's our turn. Send word back to the village; we've exchanged hostilities with the enemy. For the blood of our people, for the lives of Ceruse, my granddaughter, and Ranma, the boy I hoped would be my Shampoo's groom, we will strike at Jusenkyō. We will take back the springs from the enemy. Let no one forget what has happened here, for today…"

Cologne strolled back, to the log, and fetched her battered walking stick.

"Today, the Sorcerer War is renewed."

_**Identity**_** 03 End**

* * *

**Next:** The Amazons stage a rescue attempt for Ranma, but the battle against the Sorcerers ends in cataclysm for both sides, tainting Jusenkyō for miles around. The springs may be relatively tame now, but it won't be long before it's an abomination on this earth. **The war against the Ki Sorcerers begins with chapter four of **_**Identity**_** - "Monsters and Demons" - Coming June 4, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	19. Monsters and Demons: Prelude

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** The Sorcerers have seized Jusenkyō. Now it's time for the Amazons to take it back.

* * *

**Monsters and Demons**

_A chapter in seven acts_

For thousands of years humanity has made war with itself, but the principles of effective weapons have gone unchanged through the ages. A club strikes its target and imparts deadly force from the rebound. The fins of an arrow straighten its flight, and the arrowhead pierces flesh clean and true. What makes a weapon useful is efficiency, an understanding of the laws of physics. When it comes to besieging a fortress, an attacking army needs men, armor, swords and pikes, but regardless of means, it needs one thing above all else:

Kinetic energy. That is, the ability to make a cannon shell, an iron dart, or even a stone ball fly at high speed. For this, the civilizations of antiquity have designed many a weapon: the onager, a brute-force catapult that demolishes castle stone directly, or the trebuchet, which harnesses gravity to hurl boulders over or through walls. And while these weapons might be most closely associated with Medieval Europe, in truth, the need for siege engines was global, ranging from the rocks of Gibraltar to the arid plains of the Tibetan Plateau. The Chinese, too, had need for this weaponry, and while in modern times, gunpowder and cannon dominate the age, an understanding of old weapons and their uses could prove handy, whether one needed to demolish a stone wall…

Or punch through a maze of magic with pure speed. That's why, at the edge of the illusion, the barrier that kept them from Jusenkyō, the Amazons hewed logs and shaved bark. From local trees and animal hides, they built themselves a great war machine. Simple in design it seemed—like a bow on its side, mounted on wheels and frame—but the Chinese ballista was no simple weapon. With the sinews of monkeys and wolves, the Amazons spun sturdy ropes into a pair of massive torsion springs. Winches wound the bowstring back, for the energy stored in the machine, the sweat and blood of a dozen men, would propel the projectile—a long, slender rod, more like a javelin than an arrow—and shoot a guide rope over the trees. The ballista would lead them to the spring ground and, from there, to victory.

"Come, brothers and sisters," said Cologne, standing at the base of the machine. "The time of the Amazons is at hand. Do you stand ready to defend the tribe?"

The Amazons shouted, thrusting their weapons into the air.

"Then let us tarry no longer! Warriors, pull!"

A line of girls dug their heels into the dirt, yanking on the trigger rope.

PA-CHEW! The bolt hurtled above the trees, and trailing line uncoiled in its wake.

"The path before us is clear!" said Cologne. "Follow me!"

Stealthy and quiet, the war party hugged the rope, shaking it from the canopy, holding it as a life-line through twisted, puzzling space. Though the trees warped over their heads and afternoon sun blazed from all directions, the rope led them straight and true. In a single file they emerged, and where the bolt buried itself in the ground, the Amazons fanned out. Taking to a knee each, bowmen scanned the area, watchful for enemies. Lest any Sorcerer cross their path, a flurry of arrows would drive them back. The Amazons would defend their foothold to the last man.

But to breach the Sorcerers' Maze was no halfhearted action, and Cologne had planned no halfhearted attack. "Come!" she beckoned her men, her army. "With me, the lot of you. There must be a source to this illusion, a source hidden and protected within the mountain. We will find it and destroy it. We will not fail!"

The Amazons hollered once more, and their voices echoed in the stillness of the spring ground, the unholy waters of Jusenkyō.

Over these waters Cologne led her forces, marching swiftly to the mountain, but their intrusion did not go unnoticed. A rain of rock and hail mired them, kicking up a cursed spray. The Sorcerers sniped at them from the safety of distance and with the power of magic over wood and steel.

But Cologne wasn't finished yet. "Archers, cover!"

A volley of arrows drove the Sorcerers behind tree trunks and boulders, and though their magic deflected the salvo, the Sorcerers lost track of the enemy, forced to defend themselves from unending fire.

"We're running out of arrows fast, Elder!" said one of the archers.

"Retreat to the camp and fetch more ammunition if you must," said Cologne. "Just buy us enough time to get to the crater!"

Over rocky path and brush they ran, climbing uphill toward the gash in the mountainside. The hole exposed the source water, the reason and nature of a curse, and from there, Cologne hoped, they would penetrate the mountain's inner fortress, where who- or whatever held up the Maze could be neutralized, regardless of means. Then, if Ranma were still there, they could rescue him. But if not, then only the truth of this conflict, of the Sorcerers' awakening, would remain.

The Amazons halted at crater's edge, lying low, watching their enemy gather between the Taps, yet the Sorcerers knew they'd come. Somehow, the messenger girl, the one with red-brown hair, detected their presence. She addressed them herself.

"Stop," she called out, meeting their eyes. "Stop now before we destroy you."

"You may try if you wish," said Cologne, peering over the edge. "We await your best."

"So be it." The captain closed her eyes, and from each of her men, a thin blue beam tethered them to her, a connection from heart to heart, soul to soul.

"Warriors, charge, quickly!"

The Amazons raced down the steep crater wall. Arrows flew and severed the beams. The energy erupted!

TCH-CHEW! A stray blast bored into the rock face, showering both sides in rubble. A critical distraction, for while the Sorcerers braced for the debris, the Amazons closed the gap. Steel swiped at bone. Arrows spun and zipped past, yet the Sorcerers held strong. Bolts of lightning struck down the Amazons, for their swords and maces acted as conduits, the shortest paths to ground. Fireballs warmed the rock beneath them; even the stone grew soft, liquefying from the oppressive heat. Boots caught flame. Amazons stumbled to the crater walls. Sweat dripped off their faces and evaporated before the droplets hit ground.

Cologne leapt atop the Dragon Tap, letting the cold, cursed water insulate her from the melting battlefield.

"Surrender," said the captain, walking on air, floating just off the ground. "Now."

"Surrender?" Cologne laughed. "I think not, young captain! We used to be called River Warriors, after all. We do not surrender, not while there's water on our side." She leaned over the pool at the base of the tap, dangling a hand over the surface. "Shark Fist!"

A column of water blasted the captain, knocking her against the far wall. Again and again Cologne slapped the pool, and the Shark Fist's torrent eroded the Sorcerers' defenses. A final punch bored a hole in the rock face, spitting the lot of them through the breach.

"And good riddance to you, too," said Cologne.

The crater cooled. The Amazons cradled bruises and cracked ribs. The fount of the Taps lay in shambles; reckless fighting caved in the tunnels to the rest of the mountain.

"No matter!" said Cologne. "We'll punch our way through if we must. We—"

The taps rattled. Water at the base of the Dragon shook, casting small disturbance waves.

"What is this?" Cologne hopped to the edge of the pool, peering, curious. "What have we here?"

Dozens of tiny bubbles popped at the surface.

"Everyone, back!" she ordered her men. "Back, quickly—"

KA-WHOOSH! A pillar of water gushed from the Dragon Tap, spewing like a geyser. A cold rain splattered on the ground, fizzling. The Amazons scrambled, covering themselves, looking for shelter.

"Stay your ground!" said Cologne. "The water is magical, yes, but it won't curse you. This is pure source water. It doesn't carry the taint that the springs do."

The pool overflowed, flooding the base of the crater.

"…but they _are_ connected."

Clenching her fist, Cologne raced to the crater's edge. _It was just a few punches; surely it wouldn't—_

For miles around, the thousand springs of Jusenkyō erupted, turn by turn, their waters shooting into the sky. The droplets mingled and merged, and a cursed rain, a chimeric mixture of horrors, fell upon the grounds. It blanketed the armies of the Sorcerers and Amazons, and even before the last drop fell, a terrible shriek echoed through the basin.

"Children," said Cologne, "I fear we have bigger problems than Sorcerers now."

* * *

**Next:** Weakened by strange Sorcerer magic, Ranma searches the mountain interior for an escape, but the mixture of curse water has flooded the tunnels, pitting him against the crazed beasts therein. **"Monsters and Demons" Part I - "The Sorcerer Priest" - Coming June 11, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	20. Monsters I: The Sorcerer Priest

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** The Sorcerers punished Ranma for his escape attempt, the battle that alerted the Amazons to their presence at Jusenkyō. Now, as cursed waters churn through the mountain, Ranma must face cursed horrors with only his wits to keep him alive.

* * *

**The Sorcerer Priest**

Chapter Four, Act One

Through cold, rough stone seeped water, the stuff of life. It pooled on the floor, soaking into his pants, his shirt. Water dripped from the ceiling and splatted on his face. "Plip plip plip," went the droplets. Plip plip—

His hand jerked upward, shielding his head. His eyes snapped open. He sat upright, wobbly, dazed, but his vision soon cleared.

"Gee," said Ranma. "This ain't familiar at all."

But for a few torches, darkness and shadows ruled his prison. A circular grate with iron bars caged him in his cell. A thin film of water, like a puddle on the sidewalk, coated the ground.

Ranma sighed, holding his head. _All right,_ he thought. _How did I get here? _

The memories were faint, confused. He thought he recalled more floating around like an astronaut, perhaps, with the contents of his stomach turning over, sloshing about.

"Don't you guys ever try something new?" he'd said. "This is getting kind of old."

A metal staff-tip slapped him across the cheek.

"Who are they?" Wuya had said. "Why do they come here?"

Ranma wiped away his spit with his sleeve, fighting to right himself despite the Sorcerers' levitation. "I don't know who or what 'they' you're talking about! I don't know any River people. Only Chinese people I know besides the Phoenix and you guys either try to marry me or kill me. I swear."

Wuya's eyes narrowed. "You lie."

"Oh yeah, clearly I lie about everything," said Ranma. "You guys shouldn't believe a word I say."

A thunderous echo rattled the bars of his cage. A messenger galloped down the passageway and came to Wuya, whispering in her ear.

"I see," she said. "We'll continue this later. Put her down."

Ranma's weight returned to him ten times over. He slammed into the floor, and invisible magic crushed him against the rock, as if his puny human body somehow stood on the surface of Jupiter. Massive, inexorable gravity yanked him down to hug the floor. Soon enough, his body gave up fighting this force. The world went hazy and black.

How long had it been since Wuya and her men left him? Was it day? Night? Somewhere in between?

_At least it sounds like the Guide or that idiot Kunō got out, told someone I'm here._

Ranma climbed to his feet, gripping the bars. He looked left and right, down empty halls.

He smirked. _Nobody watching me? Really? Do you guys even learn? _ He cocked his fist back and threw his hips into the blow!

Crunch! The iron bar rang like a bell, a deep warbling sound. And Ranma's bones, too, felt like they resonated with the attack—shaking, vibrating. All in all, an oddly inert sensation, as if his arm belonged to someone else.

At least it was, until the first twinge of—

"Gah!"

Pain.

His muscles tensed; he jumped and hollered and massaged his knuckles, cursing under his breath. "What the hell was that?"

He held the bar, damping its vibration. It sure _felt_ like ordinary metal. Rust flaked off the surface. Ranma took a pebble and put a sharp point to the edge, scratching it finely.

_It rusts, it scratches, but I can't break it? _

He shook the numbness from his arm and grabbed two bars, one in each hand. He pulled, yet the bars wouldn't budge.

_Come on; you don't have to be Superman to pull two metal poles apart! _ He kicked the base of his prison.

And his foot immediately regretted it. "Ow! Dammit." He gritted his teeth, riding out the last convulsion of agony. "Sheesh. What's the matter with me?"

Besides a bruised knuckle and a stubbed toe?

_That's not it at all. The only time I've ever been this weak was…_

He pulled off his shirt, knotting it on one of the bars to keep it from the wet floor. He reached back blindly, running a hand down his spine.

_Okay, no moxibustion. Would be nice if I knew that wouldn't work twice._

Or it could be that there were other places to apply one and still inhibit his strength.

_Other places? What other—_

He frowned. He touched his cheek, forehead, neck. Cringing, he pushed aside his breasts and felt around the nipples. He stuck a thumb in his waistband and—

_All right, you know what? Let's not go there. _Not_ going there._

Perhaps some regions were better left unexplored.

Ranma unknotted his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles. If not for some power-draining moxibustion, what else could weaken him so? What other technique or magic could reduce him to the strength of a toddler, unable to break the bars that held him?

_Magic._ He scoffed. _'Magic' can do anything. I bet it can even pop every kernel in a bag of popcorn, too. Damn magic._

He tucked in his shirt, eying the bars. _You don't have to be strong to fight it. You just have to be smart._

He planted a hand on the floor and sat. The shallow puddle of water seeped into his clothes, but Ranma didn't care. He laid himself back, staring at the ceiling, and bent his knees.

WHAM! He kicked the bars with the soles of his feet.

WHAM! Left then right, he bashed the bars.

WHAM WHAM WHAM! Metal ground against rock.

WHAM SNAP!

Ranma scrambled to his feet, bolting to the back of the cage. The iron grating slid from its housing and tumbled, crashing to the floor.

_When you don't have much, use what you got. Legs are strong, and much better than running back and forth and bashing my shoulder against a wall._

Ranma hopped onto the grate and shuffled down, into the firelit passage. Even outside his cage, water pooled on the ground and dripped from above.

_All that commotion, and no one's come looking? Really nobody's watching me this time? _

He looked to the grate.

_They did _something_ to me. Maybe they thought I was too weak to bother._

SCREECH! A harsh, piercing cry echoed through the mountain.

AIEEK! A second cry followed, shrill and sharp. The mountain erupted with noise, the howls, yelps, and calls of animals, yet they sounded wrong somehow. Twisted and unnatural, no two cries were the same. And that there could be so many different _things_ inside the mountain, where the source water lay…

Ranma yanked a torch from its mount, beating back the dark.

_Something _has_ happened here, and I don't think I want to stick around to find out what._

#

The first thing Ranma noticed was water. Not just by the cages, like the one he escaped. Water was everywhere; it _went_ everywhere. Whole tunnels sank below the water line, dissolving into nothingness. By a flooded passage, Ranma took a rock and marked the high point of the water. He marked it and waited and looked back again.

The water enveloped his old marking and rose three centimeters beyond it.

_Dear gods. It's like the whole mountain's going under from bottom up._

And though tempting it was to brave these waters, to wade through half-sunken passages and explore the halls beyond, Ranma balked at the thought. It was cursed water, after all. Granted, water straight from the Dragon Tap wouldn't do much but trigger his own curse, but how much did it take to imprint some form on these waters? What if a stray cricket hopped into a pool and drifted to the bottom? What if, in braving these flooded halls, he turned into a cricket too, and some ignorant, wandering soul crushed him underfoot?

_Or anything else. Crickets, cockroaches, c-c-cats._ He shivered. _No cats. Definitely no cats._

Even the drier halls gave him no clues. The shrieks and moans of creatures, of _things_, haunted the mountain yet never showed their faces. The tunnels tormented him, for they led to places he knew but couldn't reach. The passage to the Phoenix and Dragon had caved in, with water gushing through gaps on the rock. In frustration, he tried to obliterate this blockage with confidence and power, but his trusty Mōko Takabisha fizzled, sputtering in a tiny ball of ki.

_These guys really did a number on me._

And so he wandered, trading one torch for another when the first burned out. He searched the halls of Jusendō, a place all too familiar to him. He passed a tall staircase, where over three weeks ago Shampoo stood guard, a faithful servant under Keema's control. Now, however, cold water rose to all but the top of the stair.

_Yikes. If the water's this high, and the employee entrance is all the way down there…_

Strange enough to think so much could change so fast. Whatever happened outside, not a day before this mountain was the same as he remembered. The halls, the cells, the logs spanning the crevice in the water supply room—they all should've been the same. The same as when he left Akane alive and Saffron dead.

_Yes, yes, the irony kills me. If Saffron had lived, I wouldn't be in this mess. I wouldn't need to trick these Sorcerer guys. They could have Saffron then. I don't care._

And leave him to live in a dark hole, the way Tilaka did?

_Good luck caging a fire-bird. That ain't my problem._

Just his responsibility. The same way killing Saffron was his responsibility.

_All he had to do was get out of the way long enough to let Akane change back, but no! Oh no. Punk kid needs his hot water _now_. Well too bad, hot stuff! You wanted to play rough? That means you have to give as good as you get. I'd kill you a thousand times if I had to! _

Because he was selfish, arrogant.

_Yes! _

Because he showed disregard for life.

_You bet he did! _

Because it was Saffron or Akane, and gods only knew Saotome Ranma wouldn't choose him.

_Akane never tried to kill anyone. Well, maybe me, but still._

Ranma sat back, against a wall, letting his torch roll on the ground.

_I wonder how she's doing. Kunō might've gotten out, reached her. Maybe she knows._

That he fell to a bunch of crazy magicians and let himself get carted off to their village?

_Yeah, I know. I was stupid to come here. Stupid to let them take me. I'm stupid for trying this crazy plan of lying to them. I'm stupid for running around in this mountain with no strength, looking for a way out. Maybe that's just who I am, Akane. I do stupid things._

A beat.

_I killed Saffron._

He held out his hands, curling and straightening his fingers.

_And it was easy, once I could see. I killed him with these hands. No, I didn't punch his lights out or anything, but still, I did it. It was easy, and I don't regret it._

He banged on the wall with a closed fist, wincing as his hand recoiled.

_Now I'm back here, and I can't do anything._

From a crack in the rock, a beetle crawled out, into the light.

"Oh, shoo." Ranma waved the torch over the bug, swiping at it with flames. "Get out of here."

The beetle scurried down the hall, cloaked in shadow.

"Yeah, you'd better run!" said Ranma. "Run before I squash you under my heel. Damn bugs. Just bugs and dirt and water everywhere."

Boom, rattle. The mountain shook.

"What the hell?" Ranma took to his feet.

KA-WOOSH, splash! Water sprayed into the tunnel, gushing and churning. It trickled along the floor, spreading out, and flowed over the steps of the stair.

"Oh great." Ranma yanked his torch from oncoming waters and tip-toed toward the breach.

A crack in the rock let water through, constricting the flow a thumb over the end of a garden hose.

_Won't take much to bust that wide open. I'd better—_

AI-EEK!

…_get out of here? _

Ranma led with his torch, peering into the black. The light revealed a pair of long, black rods, laden with stiff bristles, dripping water and oily slime.

_What the hell is this? I don't remember anything like—_

A rod twitched.

"Oh holy shit!" Ranma backpedaled, falling on his rear, scurrying away. "What the hell is that?"

Boom, boom, boom! The rods, the _feelers_, poked out of the tunnel, searching, waving about. A pair of eyes—twin domes with thousands of individual spots and cells—stared dully, unmoving. Pincer jaws gnashed and flared.

AI-EEK! A giant beetle roared, spreading its gossamer wings.

"Aw, come on, this is a joke, right?"

AI-EEK!

"This is a joke, _right_?"

The beetle charged, barreling through the tunnel, its antennae like long, spiked clubs.

Ranma stood his ground, digging his heels. _All right, I've got three options._ He twirled the torch in his hand. _Kill it with fire? _

The beetle's armor, a tough chitin exoskeleton, glistened with dew.

_Right, bad idea._ He looked to the ground. _Kill it with water? _

Perhaps he forgot this was a giant, _cursed_ beetle?

_Yeah, last thing we want to do is give it tentacles. Okay, third option then._

His muscles tensed. He balled his fist…

And kicked up cursed water in his wake.

_Run away! _

The beetle crashed through narrow passages, ripping rock from the walls. It scurried on hard, jointed legs, covered in hairs. A series of claws gripped the floor, cutting the stone like knives into soft wheat rolls.

_Oh great, let's not think about what that would do to flesh, huh? _

Mouthparts lunged at him, snapping shut with a thunderous sound.

"That how you want to play it?" Ranma crouched behind a boulder, ducking the beetle's maw. "Sometimes you have to remember—your prey can bite back!" He lugged the boulder with both arms…

And it banged on the floor, too heavy to move.

_Come on, dammit! Are you really telling me I can't lift a little rock? _

The beetle pulled back and thrust!

CRASH! The boulder shattered. Amidst a spray of debris, a sharp point gouged his side.

"Gah!" Ranma fell to the ground, but pale blue cloth caught on the beetle's jaws. Pale blue with splotches of red.

The beetle thrashed, but its pincers lodged in the rock wall, shaking the tunnel.

Ranma tore the shirt along the seam, ripping himself free. Warm red blood seeped from the gash, staining the fabric.

"You know," said Ranma, gripping his torch, "I liked this shirt." He twirled the fiery club and thrust!

A compound eye caved in, shattering.

The beetle shrieked. Fluids and hemolymph extinguished the embers, draping the tunnel in blackness.

"Time to go!" He bolted down the hall.

…and into the glare of a white beacon.

"Hey!" said Ranma, shielding his eyes. "Whoever you are, you've got to move, now!"

Move the beacon did, but toward Ranma and the beetle it sped. A hooded figure, clad in gray robes, dangled a lamp in one hand and a clay jar in the other.

The beetle jarred its pincers free, turning its good eye to the tiny humans before it.

"You know, I don't think you really want to go running into—"

Splash!

Amidst steam and pebbles, a beetle, hardly the size of Ranma's thumb, struggled for traction on wet rock.

The hooded figure pulled back her hood, holding her lamp over the insect.

"And interesting blessing," she said. "Don't you think?"

"I wouldn't call it a 'blessing' of any kind."

The woman nodded grimly. Setting her jar on its side, she brushed the beetle into a clay prison, capping it off with dry cloth. "There have been many creatures like this one since the cataclysm above."

"Many? There are others?"

"Don't you hear them?"

Ranma looked about. Strange, cacophonous cries haunted the mountain, but their sources went unseen.

"It's as if they're trying to speak," said the woman, "yet their voices aren't their own. It frightens them." She peered at Ranma's wound, shining a light over the gash. "Come; you're injured, and this place isn't safe."

"You have someplace to go?"

"Yes."

"Some kind of shelter?"

"My laboratory."

#

She called herself Henna, a priestess of the Sorcerers, sent to accompany Kohl in this mission to the holy mountain.

"And so far as I know," said she, "you and I are the only ones left in this place, aside from the beasts that now roam the tunnels."

Beasts and creatures, foul _things_. With Henna's lamp lighting the way, the many and varied creatures of the mountain peered out from the shadows, treading along the light's edge. Snakes with two heads slithered in opposing directions. Beached fish floundered without water, for they had never been fish before.

"I've done what I can with what little plain water I have," said Henna, "but there are too many animals touched by the springs. Animals … and some of my kin."

The empty robes and tunics strewn about the tunnels testified to that.

"Strange," said Ranma, picking up an abandoned staff. "It happened so fast even your guys couldn't react?"

"In truth, I'm as puzzled as you are," said Henna. "I've searched long and hard for my brethren here, but I've yet to encounter anything else that shows signs of intelligence. I fear we're very much alone."

Ranma twirled the battle staff, leveling it on Henna.

"Come now," she said, chuckling. "This is hardly the time for betrayal."

"You're still a Sorcerer."

"Indeed I am." She held out her palm, and the staff yanked itself from Ranma's grip, landing in Henna's hand.

"That's really irritating."

"Should I have left you to the insect, then?"

"Hey, it's not like I'm ungrateful, but you're the one with a lamp and water and a staff. I've got nothing but my own two hands."

"Really? I heard you gave some trouble to the captain."

Ranma scowled. "Yeah, well," he muttered to himself, "that was then."

"I realize we're not true allies," said Henna, "but this mountain threatens both of us now. I take it you discovered no means of escape?"

"Nothing that wasn't blocked off by rocks or water."

Henna nodded. "The same as I've seen. It's not just that we cannot leave. If we're the only one's here, then we're the only ones who can reverse this disaster."

"Don't see how the two of us are supposed to make flood waters disappear."

The priest's lamp shined over a gap in the rock, a rectangular outline. "Perhaps we can't undo the flood, but at least we can care for its victims." She pushed forward, and the stone gave way, revealing a chamber lit by torches. Despite the flames, Ranma walked into a wall of humidity, of weight and pressure. Water hid in this place—in jars and beakers and shallow channels.

Water and animals. Rats nibbled at bamboo cages. A songbird pecked at straw and grain, tweeting in vain to hear the calls of others.

"I am a priest, you see," said Henna, setting her lamp on the workbench. "I am a healer, yet now…" She placed a cup of water in a rabbit's cage. "Now I am a jailor; I cage the monsters that have come to inhabit this mountain, for I know not what else to do."

"So this setup," said Ranma, "this lab—"

"We studied the nature of the springs here," said Henna. "That is, my assistants and I. I've yet to see any of them. I can only think they've been caught in the cataclysm, too." She met Ranma's gaze. "There _are_ people here, in this mountain. I'm sure of it."

"And you're telling me all this because…?"

Henna gazed slowly over the room, a haunted look in her eyes. "You know the nature of the springs' magic, don't you? These creatures—I can return them to the forms they were born with. I can douse them in warm water, but it won't hold forever."

"Yeah, for that you need pure curse water, not whatever crazy mix of stuff is coming through the walls."

"Yes, pure spring water, perhaps something like this?" Henna dragged out a small wooden keg, marked in Chinese script.

"You're kidding."

"Not at all. We have several barrels of water, although I can't say we know for certain which blessings each holds. The Advisor told me there were some books on the subject, but I've never seen them." She met Ranma's gaze. "I know you wish to rid yourself of that body. It's … understandable."

"Really? Sounds like you know an awful lot about me."

"It's unnatural to you, isn't it? As unnatural to you as to these poor creatures, these beasts. The Advisor told me himself: he would keep you from the Drowned Man spring, if only to make you adhere to our ways. It's … foolish. More than that, it's without precedent. We _need_ the springs' magic. You don't."

"What do you need to be cursed for, exactly?"

"The Lady tells us we're born cursed."

"Right, what is this, backwards day?"

Henna chuckled. "You're very clever."

"I do try."

"Perhaps your cleverness will be useful, then." One by one, Henna unveiled more barrels. "We have many samples, most of them untested. One of them may hold the water you seek, but if not, we may still be lucky and restore these creatures to the bodies they were born with."

"You're going to a lot of trouble to help save a bunch of animals," said Ranma.

Henna smiled. "Are we all not animals, in our own way?"

Perhaps they were. Animals kill each other; they just don't call it murder. Animals trap and trick one another, yet they don't think it deception. Animals bleed and feel pain, but do they truly suffer? Or are their cries for help merely reflexes, responses, devoid of all sentiment, all feeling?

When they're weak, do animals feel despair?

In Henna's lab, Ranma wound strips of brown cloth about his waist, a tight bandage to seal his wound. He uncorked a barrel of spring water and sniffed it, inhaling its musk. With a jar of hot water in one hand and a ladle for cold in the other, Ranma poured the curse water over a gray rat. The animal curled into a ball, and in its place, a robin ruffled its feathers, shedding drops of magic from its wings.

_Too weak to do anything,_ he thought to himself. _Too weak to fight or flee. What am I supposed to do? Sit here and experiment on animals until I find my cure? Lie down and wait until the Sorcerers come back? _

He huddled over a clay bowl, a mix of rice and potatoes and beans, but he paid little attention to the food. Nay, he looked to the cup of water, clear and clean. He held the edge of the cup to his nose and sniffed gently.

The water smelled musky and stale.

* * *

**Next:** With Cologne stranded by the Dragon Tap, it's up to Shampoo to lead the Amazons and regroup at their beachhead, but the spring ground is rampant with cursed monstrosities, and already, one of their number is lost. **The battle for control of Jusenkyō continues with "Monsters and Demons" Part II - "The Flood" - Coming June 18, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, check out my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	21. Monsters II: The Flood

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** When the springs erupt, both Amazon and Sorcerer alike share a common enemy: the surging waters spewing from the source, that engulf and curse all in their path.

* * *

**The Flood**

_Chapter Four, Act Two_

While Cologne led a strike force to the Phoenix and Dragon, the rest of Nerima contingent had other plans. Ukyō and Konatsu stayed with the ballista's spike, scrambling to build a foothold encampment that they could defend if the Sorcerers struck. Shampoo, however…

"You follow me now!" she said, thrusting her chúi into the air. "We go after Sorcerers for our people, for Ranma!"

Behind her lead, Mousse, Akane, and Ryōga armed themselves, and a squad of Amazons accompanied them, providing cover as they traversed the spring ground.

"Fireball, move!" said Mousse.

From high on the mountain, balls of flame rained on Shampoo and the Amazons. Curse water flash-boiled into scalding steam, and bamboo poles scattered, lighting the grounds ablaze.

"Come on, cowards!" said Ryōga, stringing a bandana between his hands. "Show yourselves!"

But why should they show themselves? Why should they dare come into the light when the sheer face of the mountain protected them?

Standing atop ledges and trails, the Sorcerer Guard brought the elements to bear on the spring ground. Gusts spread the flames, and a swirling firestorm engulfed the invaders. Embers nipped at their eyes. Smoke and soot choked their lungs.

Mousse spun around, coughing, confused. "I can't see anything in this mess!"

"What else new?" Shampoo gripped her chúi tight and covered her face and eyes with the spheres, but specks of burning matter ate at her clothes, fizzling to the skin.

"Shampoo, stop!" said Mousse.

"We no stop! Follow me!"

Ryōga opened his umbrella, holding it by the neck as a shield. "All right then. Akane-san, let's go!"

"Eh? Wait a minute, Ryōga-kun!"

He dragged her by the hand into the fire, protecting her with the width of the umbrella and his own body. They charged through the blaze, and in their wake, Mousse followed, running with Shampoo to clear the firestorm.

The winds receded behind them, but burning grass speckled in the tornado of flame.

Mousse brushed charred pieces of cloth from Shampoo's shirt. "Are you all right?"

"Shampoo fine." She batted his hand away. "Mousse no touch."

"But Shampoo—"

"All right!" Ryōga pointed up the mountain. "The employee entrance has to be close! Let's go!"

"But wait, Ryōga-kun!" said Akane.

"We have to get inside, for our safety!"

She pulled herself free from his grasp, pointing to a cubby in the rock-face and a simple metal door. "The entrance is this way."

"Ah!" Ryōga laughed, embarrassed. "My mistake."

"Sorcerer!" said Mousse. "Move!"

Ryōga looked around. A Sorcerer? Where? It was just him and Akane right now, wasn't it? Separated by no more than a few meters? But for the firestorm behind them and the fireballs above, the mountain was clear. Where could a Sorcerer be hiding?

_Above…_

Ryōga gazed to the sky.

To the soles of a Sorcerer's boots.

The hands of the enemy glowed blue and hot!

Ryōga dashed across the gap between them. "Akane-san!"

KA-PAM! A series of shockwaves shattered the rock. Ryōga hurtled from the crater, tumbling uncontrolled. The impact site caved in, crumbling to reveal water underneath.

"Archers, take him out already!" said Mousse.

Not that they weren't trying. Arrows splintered and deflected away, harmless to the Sorcerer above.

"Fine then," said the Amazon leader. "Shampoo fix this herself." She crouched, bending both knees, and jumped high, practically flying. She swung her chúi with devastating force…

And missed. The Sorcerer floated away from her, circling her back. Between his hands, an orb of cold formed and grew.

TA-CHEW!

It blasted Shampoo in the back. A column of ice drove her into the rocks, face-first.

"You dare hurt my Shampoo?" Mousse raised his arms, and from the gaps in his sleeves, chains shot out. They wrapped around the Sorcerer, binding him in tight coils.

The Sorcerer struggled. He yanked and tugged, hacking at the chain links with his bare hands.

"If you think that's my only weapon," said Mousse, "you're sadly mistaken, for you see, these chains are _electrified_!"

At the flick of a concealed switch, Mousse sparked a current through the metal, giving the Sorcerer his first lesson in, essentially, what happens when you stick your finger in a mains power socket.

It's not a pleasant sensation.

Charred and smoking, the Sorcerer tumbled to the earth.

"Electrified chains?" said Ryōga, cradling his head. "Really, Mousse?"

He scoffed. "I'm not happy to have to use this technique here. I was actually saving it for Ranma."

Ryōga blinked. "Why didn't I think of that…"

"Mousse and Ryōga done plot how to kill Ranma?" Shampoo clawed at the pillar of ice that trapped her, but with the weight pinning her across her back, her wet hands slipped off the column every time she grabbed at it.

"Forgive me, Shampoo!" said Mousse. "Let me make amends."

His chains wrapped around the cylinder and retracted. Shampoo rolled free of the ice beam's weight, panting and cold.

"Are you hurt?" asked Mousse.

She shook her head, but her eyes refused to meet his gaze.

"But Shampoo—"

"Akane-san…" Ryōga glanced back and forth, panicked and stricken. "Where's Akane-san?"

Mousse scanned the area. Indeed, but for melted rock, dripping ice, and craters, there was no sign of Akane, no hint of where the Sorcerer's attack blasted her to.

A stray fireball zoomed over their heads, melting the rock face behind them.

"Tendō will have to wait," said Mousse. "We've got to clear the area first!"

"No! We're not going anywhere without Akane-san!"

"We're not going anywhere while these Sorcerers are still hounding us!"

Ta-rum. A low rumble bellowed through the mountain, shaking the earth. The fighting stopped. The Amazons parties behind them halted midway through the grounds, their eyes wandering, searching. Even the Sorcerers above seemed … disconcerted somehow, enough to stop throwing fireballs and listen.

A column of water gushed from the side of the mountain, raining down on everyone under it.

"Something wrong," said Shampoo, fetching her chúi. "Something very wrong with Great-grandmother party."

"Akane-san!" Ryōga scrambled to his feet, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Akane-san, can you hear me?"

"Shut up for a second, will you?" said Mousse. "Something's—"

Rumble rumble BAM! The springs around them gushed and overflowed, spitting pillars of curse water skyward. In turns, the springs further and further from the source erupted, forming a chain that extended from the heart of the grounds to its outermost edges.

And up above, the waters of the thousand springs split into droplets. They merged and collided, forming an amalgam of magics, a concoction of horrors.

"Ryōga," said Mousse. "Umbrella."

"What?"

"Umbrella, quickly!"

Crouching safely beneath the canopy, Mousse yanked Shampoo to his side. There, the three of them huddled, powerful martial artists yet helpless on this day. A cold, cursed rain fell on the training ground called Jusenkyō, transforming both animal inhabitant and human warrior alike into gruesome beasts and creatures.

The grounds were home to neither tribe now.

They were the sole refuge of monsters and demons.

#

"So suddenly, I looked up, and I realized the whole of Jusenkyō was about to come down on us," said Ukyō. "I mean, it's good that Konatsu had the foresight to insist on waterproof tents and all—"

"Not that I mind sleeping where it's wet," said Konatsu. "It's just Ukyō-sama thought I'd be justified asking for that."

"And you were," said Ukyō. "And I'm glad I'm not a talking chihuahua's head on a man's body right now, but I've got to ask it: what the hell just happened?"

In waning daylight, Shampoo, Mousse, and Ryōga gathered by the campfire, each boiling water in a pot or pan.

"It came from the Dragon Tap," said Mousse. "I'm sure of it. That's where the first column shot out."

"You sure you saw it right?" asked Ryōga.

"He saw right." Shampoo looked over her shoulder, scanning the mountain. "Great-grandmother no come back yet."

For miles around, the cursed waters of Jusenkyō bubbled and churned. They overfilled the pools meant to separate them. They intermingled. They flooded the basin. Even now, the high-water line encroached on the encampment, the Amazons' only foothold to get through the Maze. The ground softened, turning to slosh and mud.

"And you left Akane-chan out there," said Ukyō, "to _that_?"

Ryōga bowed his head.

"We could hardly drag _him_ back here as it was," said Mousse. "Even when the water started coming over our shoes. You'd think he'd be happy enough as a pig; I guess not."

Ukyō blinked. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean it's bad enough having one—yow!" A splash of hot water spread across Mousse's arm and pants. Mousse clenched his teeth and bore it, however, keeping hold of his own pot of hot water. "What was that for?"

"Ah, forgive me," said Ryōga. "Must've slipped."

"Oh, of course you did!" Mousse put his pot aside and drew two chains from his sleeves. "Maybe you think we have something to settle?"

"I'm not the one making ridiculous remarks!"

"Why you—"

Bonk. Shampoo's chúi thudded on Mousse's skull. "We no have time for games," she said. "Mousse sit."

Rubbing his head, Mousse eased himself back to the ground, swallowing whatever pride he had left to steady his hand on the pot of hot water.

"Mistake or no mistake," said Ukyō, "that's one less batch of hot water we have now, Ryōga."

"I'm telling you, it just slipped!"

Bonk.

"Ow!"

"Now Ryōga play game too," said Shampoo.

Ryōga grumbled, emptying a bottle of water into his pan to start over.

"It seems like you guys went out with a lot more than came back," said Ukyō.

"Some fall to Sorcerers," said Shampoo. "Some get cursed. Amazons smart. Know way back to camp. We heat water for them when they get here."

"And Akane-chan?"

Shampoo stared into the fire. "She smart too. She make it back if she can."

"What do you mean by 'if'?"

"She get hit with Sorcerer attack," said Shampoo. "Almost knock out Ryōga."

"We didn't see her get hit!" said Ryōga.

"We didn't see her _not_ get hit," said Mousse.

"Well, come on then!" said Ukyō. "There's still some daylight; we should go look for her—for any survivors!"

"The springs are flooded," said Mousse. "How do you expect to get back to the mountain and look?"

"Maybe she got out. You all did. Maybe she found cover, like we did."

Mousse sighed. "It won't be long before dusk, and the Sorcerers could come looking for us, even in the dark, right, Shampoo?"

Shampoo gazed into the flames, one hand on the pot of water she heated, the other holding a string of red gems, the choker of silence the Council had forced on her.

"Shampoo?"

"Mousse do as Mousse like," she said. "Shampoo ready camp for fight if Sorcerers come. You come back before dark."

With this muted agreement, a search party set out, navigating the edge of the grounds. With Ukyō, Ryōga, and Konatsu went Mousse, volunteering to translate should they discover any of his Amazon brethren. Beyond these four, however, Shampoo would spare no one else.

"Sorcerers may come any time," she'd said. "We so weak out here. So open. Too open."

The party of four stepped lightly over soggy soil. "You think we're really so vulnerable?" said Ukyō.

"Without a doubt," said Mousse, at her side. "We still have only one way in or out through the Sorcerers' illusion. We have a foothold that's in the open, with flood waters creeping up on it. We can't hide in the trees to defend ourselves; we might never find our way back if we do. I think Shampoo's right to be concerned."

"I guess it's a good time to be calculating," said Ukyō.

Mousse smirked. "Says the fiancée who's looking for her rival."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't misunderstand me; I'd like to find Tendō Akane, too. If we _must_ rescue Ranma from the Sorcerers—"

" 'If we must'?"

He wiped a speck of dirt from his glasses, rubbing the lenses in the folds of his shirt. "Saotome did save Shampoo from Keema's mind control. I suppose I can't entirely justify leaving him to perish at the Sorcerers' hands."

"Always looking for an angle to take Shampoo for yourself, huh?"

"Look around you, Kuonji: we're all doing the same thing. Take Ryōga, for example."

Behind them, Konatsu held Ryōga by a thin strap, leashing them together, lest Ryōga follow his sense of misdirection and wander off.

"Ryōga's just here to earn Tendō's favor," said Mousse. "Or maybe it's guilt. He thinks he'll feel terrible if Ranma did perish here, and he swooped in and took Tendō for himself?"

"He might," said Ukyō, "but I know how smitten he is with Akane-chan. He wouldn't stay that way for long."

"My point exactly. I mean, look at us now: we're traipsing around this mush, and for what? To search for Tendō? How bad would you really feel if we didn't find her?"

Ukyō fingered a throwing spatula. "Just what are you trying to say?"

"It's a simple question."

"If you're trying to get me to stop looking for Akane-chan, you won't succeed. It's the right thing to do."

"I'm not saying it isn't. I suppose it suffices to say that I find it strange. We've all taken bold action to win the ones we love, haven't we? We've done things—questionable things, immoral things. I had a chance, you know, with Shampoo."

"Eh? Color me surprised."

"Ranma trapped her in a surikomi egg to reverse the Phoenix's brainwashing. If I'd been the first thing she saw when she awoke, she would've done anything I said. I could've told her to love me, to serve my every need, to take me into her bed—"

"I _don't_ need to hear about your fantasies!"

Mousse sighed. "I _could_ have done all those things, but instead I made her look in a mirror, so her only master would be herself."

"Really?" Ukyō raised an eyebrow. "That's … actually very noble of you."

"And not two seconds later she jumped all over Ranma, thanking him for saving her."

Ukyō relaxed, sliding her throwing spatula back into place. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"You think doing the 'right thing' will make you feel better about putting aside what you want most, Kuonji?"

She frowned. "Do you ever wish you made Shampoo look at you instead of the mirror?"

He looked back, over his shoulder, but the camp they left lay out of sight.

"Every day," he said.

On this dour note, Ukyō set her sights ahead, on the training grounds in waning light. The time to contemplate her motives was later. For now, she focused on the twilight around her, on the spring ground that was awash with magic and horror.

The creatures that now inhabited the woods called to one another sporadically. Branches rustled. Beasts and things darted from the shadows; only the sounds of hooves or wings hinted at their existence at all.

Not every beast could fly or run, however. Back-to-back, twin turtles scrambled for footing. Their shells fused together; neither could walk with the other flailing above.

"Dear gods." Ukyō uncapped a thermos and poured hot water over the poor creature. Sure enough, the turtles merged into one, which crawled about without issue from then on.

"We'll have to be careful," said Mousse. "We don't have enough water to turn everything back the way it was. We should save what we can for something that shows signs of intelligence."

"Is it really right to leave all these animals cursed like this?" said Konatsu.

"We don't have much choice. Even a short drizzle will change them back again."

A "sign of intelligence" it was then. Before majestic horses with wings and cool eagles with lions' heads, the group of four tapped twigs on tree trunks, looking for any hint of imitation—or better yet, extrapolation. After one and three is five, right? Or one and four then nine? Maybe these beasts and creatures could scratch out Chinese characters with their paws and show they weren't mere animals but humans instead?

Just how does one prove himself human when he can't speak his mind? When he must gesture without hands?

"Akane-san!"

Ukyō jolted. "Akane-chan? Where?"

Ryōga tore into the woods, dragging Konatsu in his wake.

"Hey, get back here, you moron; you'll get lost in that trap of theirs!"

Mousse groaned. "He'd get himself lost in a paper bag."

"Ryōga!" Ukyō and Mousse gave chase, moving from tree to tree, lest they lose their way back to the grounds. Sure enough, a girl's form appeared. Wet and shivering, her short dark hair was frayed and unkempt. She shivered, sitting by a tree trunk.

And she was completely naked.

Ryōga froze, shuddering. "A-A-Akane-san?"

She looked up, meeting his gaze, but her eyes showed no signs of recognition, no hints of warmth or relief.

"It's all right!" he cried, covering his eyes. "You're … safe, and—" He opened a slit between his fingers.

Bonk. Ukyō's spatula tapped him lightly on the head. "Just where are you looking?" she said.

"Nowhere!"

Ukyō rolled her eyes. "Konatsu, Mousse, if you would?"

Naturally, the other two men took Ryōga by each arm and turned him away from the unclothed Akane. Satisfied with this, Ukyō crouched, putting her level with the naked girl.

"Come on, Akane-chan," she said. "You want me to get you some clothes first, or…?"

Akane shied away from her, scrambling to another tree.

"I don't understand," said Ukyō, hands on her hips. "I've seen her go a little crazy before, but never anything like this."

Mousse glanced over his shoulder, adjusting his glasses.

"Now where are _you_ looking?"

"You have more water?" he said.

"Yeah, why?"

He took the thermos she offered him and undid the cap. "I have a hunch."

"A hunch? What hunch? Hey!"

Mousse circled around the trees. Taking position in a blind spot, he flung the rest of the thermos at Akane, showering her in hot water.

"This'd better not be some kind of creepy male fetish of yours!" said Ukyō.

"It isn't. Look."

The woods were empty. Akane was nowhere to be found.

"Where did she go?" asked Ukyō.

"She's right in front of you."

At the base of the tree, a squirrel cowered before the human party, its fur dripping wet in the setting sun.

"How?" said Ukyō.

Mousse shaded his eyes, watching the sun as it touched the outline of the mountain. "Too long of a story for now. I don't think we'll find Tendō Akane, not before dark. We should head back."

As Ryōga wailed for his poor lost Akane, as Konatsu comforted him (or did his best to try), Ukyō nodded. "Yeah," she said. "I guess you're right."

The soft earth gave under her feet once more, and Kuonji Ukyō looked inside herself, wondering.

_I think, somehow, I'm happy we haven't found Akane-chan yet._

She uncapped a canteen of water and gulped, but the bitter taste of acid lingered in her mouth.

#

On their way back to camp, Ukyō's party braved the slush of the grounds and the gray of twilight in the Jusenkyō Basin. The sun fell below the mountain's edge, draping them in dark, damp shadows.

Ukyō shivered. It would be a chilly night, in her reckoning. A night to snuggle in a sleeping bag or stay close to a fire.

Burning, smoke, light. The trees blazed, beacons of warm light.

"Dammit," said Ukyō, drawing her battle spatula. "The camp's on fire!"

The group double-timed it to the foothold encampment, where Amazons scrambled with pots and buckets of water, extinguishing the flames.

"Shampoo!" said Ukyō. "What the hell happened?"

A pair of chúi in her hands, Shampoo slapped the metal head across a human skull. Bound by rope, a person, a prisoner, lay squirming at Shampoo's feet. Towering over him, she berated the captive in harsh Chinese, but still the Sorcerer only glared back at her. Following his gaze, the tents and trees erupted in fire.

"What does Shampoo think she's doing?" said Ryōga.

"She's asking him questions," said Mousse. "About Ranma, the Sorcerers…" He winced. "To tell the truth, I can't make out half of the things she's saying."

Ukyō gritted her teeth. "She's out of control. Hey, Shampoo!"

The Amazon tossed her chúi aside. She put her hand to her belt and pulled out a small, short-blade dagger.

"Wait a minute!" Ukyō rushed in, grabbing her by the elbow. "What are you trying to do here?"

Shampoo glared. "You see Sorcerer?" she said. "Sorcerer pretend to be Amazon. Sorcerer pretend so get hot water. Sorcerer attack. We tie up Sorcerer, but he still dangerous! He still no surrender." Her gaze bored into the prisoner. "If he no give in, then he no can live."

"You're going to give up any chance of figuring out what happened to Ranma? Or how to bring down the mirage they've got around this place?"

CRACK, BOOM! A tree trunk split in half, showering the Amazons in wooden shrapnel.

As the rest took cover, Shampoo snatched her arm, breaking free. "Shampoo no let another man beat her! Not again!" She raised the dagger high!

CRACK! A lightning bolt surged through her body. The ground charred; the air crackled, fresh with the smell of ozone.

"Shampoo!" Mousse dashed to her side, cradling her neck and head. "Answer me, Shampoo!"

"Ah, Mousse?" said Ukyō.

"Don't just stand there!" he cried. "Help me!"

Ukyō gripped her battle spatula. "I think we still have a problem."

"What is it—"

From Shampoo's side, the dagger she wielded slid across the ground, possessed with its own spirit.

"Strange," said Konatsu. "Is it a cursed dagger?"

"Don't you know anything?" said Mousse. "Cursed daggers weld themselves to your hand."

Ukyō eyed the Sorcerer prisoner. "I don't think this is a curse at all."

The dagger whipped into the air, tumbling, floating before the group. Moved by unseen magic, it slashed the Sorcerer's bindings, leaving him free to walk and move, to bring the full extent of his magic on a sorely overwhelmed encampment.

The dagger pointed itself at Ukyō.

_Shit._

Clink, SLAM! A metal sphere kicked the dagger away, and in a clean, sweeping motion, Shampoo swung, batting the Sorcerer into the ground.

"It take more than thunder to stop me," she said, and though her feat were unsteady under her, she twirled a chúi in her hand, ready to strike.

The Sorcerer staggered, limping. He walked on air and coasted over the flooded springs.

Shampoo yanked a bow from one of her men. She lined up the notch in the bowstring and pulled back.

Tew, tink!

The arrow shuddered in mid-flight, and a sheet of ice encased the arrowhead, spreading out as a shield. The Amazon bowmen fired a volley, but the ice deflected each arrow.

Shampoo let out a breath, leaning against a tree trunk. The tents burned to their frames, and firefighters sloshed buckets of curse water to extinguish the blaze.

"My gods," said Ukyō. "What's going to happen now?"

"What you think?" Shampoo flung the bow on the ground. "Mousse go back to main camp, get more tents, more people. Sorcerers know where we are now. Know we weak. Sorcerers no need light to attack."

She snapped off a branch and lit it on the flames.

"Go sleep now. Shampoo take first watch."

* * *

**Next:** Stranded and without magic to protect him, Kohl, the Sorcerers' captain, must brave the mountain alone … or embrace an unexpected ally. **The search for Akane and Ranma continues with "Monsters and Demons" Part III - "Black and Red" - Coming June 25, 2010.**

**Note:** unlike last week, I've decided to confine any significant author's commentary to my blog, so people here need not be bothered by it if they don't care for it. As always, commentary on this installment and others can be found by following the link in my FFN profile or going directly to westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	22. Monsters III: Black and Red

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** Cologne's attack on the Dragon Tap scattered the Sorcerers defending it. Now, as night descends on Jusenkyō, the Sorcerers' captain faces the beasts of the mountain alone, in a body that can't fight with magic.

* * *

**Black and Red**

_Chapter Four, Act Three_

The sun slipped below the horizon. Faint, wispy clouds glowed and dispersed. Pinpricks of starlight shined over the cursed springs. Nighttime it was over Jusenkyō, and the night was cold, damp, and unforgiving.

But most of all, it was black.

Kohl opened his eyes. Jagged rock poked at his spine. He lay in a puddle, a deposit of blank curse water, with nothing to see but the stars above.

He sat up.

And ached. His muscles tingled, weary and sore. He touched his fingers to his arms, but the skin recoiled at the faintest touch. Even so, he put a hand to his face, feeling his strong chin.

_So it is. The old woman's attack doused us all in cold water._

Apparently, _old_ could very well mean _formidable_.

Kohl rose to his feet, but the air before him shimmered and spun. Blood drained from his skull; the stars themselves came to earth and danced before his eyes.

He steadied himself on the cliff face. Cupping his free hand, he poured all his magic—what little this true body of his could muster—into his fingertips.

The air crackled. From a lone spark an open flame fizzled and grew in the palm of his hand. With this small beacon of light about him, he discovered a thin, severed tree branch, and though the wood was damp, it took the flame, lightly at first, but stronger and more vigorously with each passing second. The fire lit up his surroundings, yet to Kohl's surprise, he found nothing.

No Riverfolk charged up the mountain, seeking to snuff out his small torch.

No Sorcerers of the Guard rushed to his aid.

Not even Saotome Ranma stood before him, ready to gloat about some cruel reversal of fate.

There was just the light and the dark; the rocks and the water; the Advisor, Kohl, and the emptiness around.

#

Just how long he wandered he couldn't say. Minutes, hours? Time is a luxury, counted only by men who have an abundance of it. Time concerned Kohl when it turned the torch in his hands to ash, but no more than that. Kohl could be patient when needed. Once, when sparring with Xiu, captain and lieutenant merely stared at one another for three hours—at least, until Xiu shifted his aura just a fraction of a hair's breadth. A minor mistake, but Kohl sensed it and focused his attack on the resulting weakspot. A beam of blue light smashed Xiu into the tower wall.

"But why," the Lady had asked, "did you wait three hours to attack?"

It was simple, wasn't it? Xiu would make the first move, whatever it took, and Kohl would wait, however long it took. As long as Xiu erred first, Kohl could capitalize and emerge the victor.

"I see," said the Lady. "So your patience is a result of certainty?"

An adequate explanation. It's easy to be calm when you think—when you _know_—you'll win. Less so when victory is ambiguous. That's what training and discipline are for.

But discipline, like the torch in his hand, could merely guide the wayward warrior. It beat back the depths of uncertainty, but only to a small circle of light. Beyond the torch's orange and golden glow, shadows cloaked the mountaintop and the springs. It was a darkness worse than pitch, for with his torch he saw the rocks beneath his feet, yet all that lay beyond was shapeless. The fire saturated his eyes; compared to the flames, everything else melted in black.

Such are the limitations of human eyes and senses. They see imperfectly. Look straight ahead and let your finger wander in front of you. Sooner or later, it vanishes, disappearing into a void, yet we don't see this blind spot, do we? No, our brains cover it up, make us believe it isn't there, but it is. What looks like yellow in shadow can seem blue in full sunlight, yet both colors are truly gray. The human eye simplifies things greatly. It takes a three-dimensional world and paints it onto flat canvass.

Yet these shortcomings are necessary, too. If we saw everything in perfect clarity and detail, would we pay attention to what's important? Would we notice the cheetah dashing toward us if grazing gazelles demanded as much thought?

Kohl knew this dichotomy well. To the untrained Sorcerer, that was the price of seeing things clearly. To reach out with one's mind and heart exposed him to innumerable swirls and eddies. Even now, if Kohl could open himself to those energies, he couldn't know whether he'd see better that way than with his own two eyes.

Not that he'd deny himself the chance out of simple philosophical disagreement, but his body shielded him from passing currents of ki, from the thoughts of others that sway men's souls. Any shield is a barrier in both directions. What could not flow into him also had difficulty flowing out. To see clearly, with his mind and heart, required water—hot water, to be precise. Hot water he didn't have.

A cruel irony indeed. With each step, Kohl passed small puddles of water, trapped between the rocks. When his stride met soil and dirt, the earth seeped out water beneath his feet, yet for all this water, Kohl trusted none of it. Some, he guessed, he _hoped_, were plain source water, but any small trench could carry a blessing of the springs—a blessing he didn't need right now, a blessing he couldn't use if he meant to return to the body he was born with. And though he couldn't tell which water was safe and which wasn't by sight, the evidence crawled and slithered around him. Three-headed earthworms burrowed into the soil. Rabbits with scorpion tails scurried away from the light. A goat galloped down the mountain, flapping a pair of white wings.

_Just what did these Riverfolk do? _

For starters, they cleaned out the mountain nicely. Neither Riverfolk nor Sorcerer met Kohl on his trek around the mountain. Indeed, whether he should hike up, toward the peak, or down to the springs, he couldn't say, and whether, in the morning, he'd find Mount Kensei crawling with Riverfolk or his own kin…

Well, he couldn't say anything about that, either.

Perhaps, instead, he'd find nothing but the strange, mangled blessings of the springs made manifest, with himself the only man of any kind left.

Lost and uncertain, Kohl established a campfire on the mountainside. He wrung out his clothes and shivered, bracing himself for a night cold and alone.

Screech.

That's right; no one but him and the cries of animals who weren't born the way they were. At least the children of the tribe grew up in their blessed bodies. These animals, these creatures—would they act differently? Would the cowardly rat shy away from him, even if it had the body of a tiger? Would the mountain bear attack, despite its transformation to a harmless duck?

Screech!

He'd slept enough already, and if the calls and noises of the animals kept him awake, so be it. He could afford to stand vigilant through the night. Morning would bring the sun's light and show him the truth of things. Dawn would show him who or what controlled the mountain, whether it be Sorcerer, Riverfolk, or beast. All he had to do was stay warm, alive, and awake. Fire would scare away most fiends.

SCREECH!

Kohl tensed. Each cry was louder than the last; it pierced the night, calling over all other sounds. He pulled his torch from the fire, pointing it to the sky and stars.

A vicious gust whipped and fanned the flame. Broad, leathery wings flapped, disturbing the air. The beast swooped from above, opening its claws.

_Oh no you don't! _ Kohl dove, slamming against the rocks.

SCREECH, CRASH! Talons shattered rock and earth. Boulders flung in all directions. The beast opened its flesh-rending beak. It screeched and howled and circled over Kohl.

_I see. Clearly my presence alone offends you. Very well then._

Kohl rolled to his feet. If he needed to, he would fight. Maybe not with the vast and obscene magics of his other body, but his training didn't end there. The Captain of the Guard fights with all weapons—traditional or otherwise. If all he had was a stick in flames, then he'd battle and win with it.

As the chimera swooped in again, Kohl charged, swinging his club for a deathblow. Jump, swipe—

WHAM! A wing batted him away like a rooftop to a pellet of hail. The torch went flying. Kohl sagged against a cliff wall, dazed.

_All right. _Perhaps_ some hot water would be of use about now._

He felt for the rocks and the wall beside him, but the black of night enveloped the face. His campfire flickered, too distant to penetrate the dark. His torch rolled away, tumbling over jagged rock.

SCREECH!

Kohl ducked!

Slip, tumble, fall. He footing gave way on uneven ground. Such were the blessings of human senses; he couldn't see the pits and crevices in the rocks. He felt blindly to gain traction, searching with his feet—feet he wouldn't need if he could fly on a river of ki instead.

_Think not of magic now. Get the torch and put up a fight! _

He scrambled on all fours, crawling through the dark. Just get to the torch. That's all he had to do. Then he could stand and fight like a man, and this strange chimera that hounded him would fall.

But the torch rolled, bouncing, jittering; its light flickered and faded, shrinking into the night.

And then it stopped. A shoe, a foot, a leg pinned it to the ground, halting its momentum.

SCREECH!

The stranger picked up the torch and held it over her head. She crouched to a knee and looked up, watching, waiting.

The chimera landed before her. It flapped its wings and howled, ruffling the girl's hair, tearing at the ember at the end of the stick.

But the girl stood tall. She bent her knees and charged, torch swinging!

WHAM! The torch splintered, cracking the bird's beak.

CRUNCH! A kick to the ribs knocked the wind from its chest.

BAM! An uppercut snapped the left wing.

The monstrous bird-beast yelped and hobbled. Flapping its good wing, it skidded down the mountain side, its calls fading in the night.

Kohl rose to his feet, unsteady, bracing himself on tree trunks and boulders for hand-holds. Tired and cramping, he dragged himself back to the campsite.

"Hey!" Limping on one good leg, the girl in the distance recovered a fragment of the torch and hobbled her way toward him, coming into view. "Are you all right?"

"Maybe I should ask you the same question," said Kohl, eying the girl's tender, wrapped up foot.

"Oh, this?" Awkwardly, she tightened the strip of cloth that bound her ankle. "It's just a sprain. I think I rolled it when I landed, before the water came down."

"You beat that creature on a sprained ankle?"

The girl simpered. "I guess?"

"But the bird…"

"It might've been a lucky hit or two."

"I see." Kohl sat, easing his weight onto a rock. "You can go now."

"Eh?"

He eyed her up and down. "You're not my ally. Either we fight, or we part ways."

"Wait a minute. I'm the one who beat back that beast for you, and this is how you show gratitude?"

"I'm grateful. That's why I'm offering to let you leave before I take you prisoner."

"Take _me_ prisoner? I think we have much bigger things to worry about than taking each other prisoner. Look at what that bird did!"

Kohl grimaced. "It is … quite strange."

"Didn't you see what happened?"

"No. I didn't."

"All of Jusenkyō is like this now. It's not safe to be alone."

"What are you suggesting?"

She hopped on one foot to a felled log and sat gingerly upon it, resting her bad ankle on a nearby rock. "I couldn't find anything dry enough to make a fire. I don't have anywhere else to go."

"And?"

"Isn't it silly to keep fighting when we have all these creatures to worry about? At least, for the night?"

He glared. "I don't trust you."

"Fine! The feeling's mutual."

"But you may stay."

She blinked in surprise.

"That ankle—it might not heal quickly. Even if you can fight on it, it slows you down."

The girl nodded. "Thank you, uh…" She frowned. "I'm sorry; I don't know your name."

"Kohl."

"Ah, thank you, Kohl."

"And you?"

"Pardon?"

"Your name."

"Oh, my name's Tendō," she said. "Tendō Akane."

#

'_So that's how it is.'_

By their small, guarded campfire, Kohl sprinkled vision dust into the flames. With a deep breath, he inhaled the fumes, clearing his mind, opening his thoughts to the broad currents of ki.

And with her head on the log, Akane slept, none the wiser that Kohl emptied half her canteen to commune with Sindoor.

'_Do not regret necessary acts, Kohl,'_ said the Lady. _'You were right to advise me of this turn.'_

The captain straightened her tunic, conscious of the poor, loose fit.

'_At dawn, I'll dispatch Xiu and the last of the channelers we can spare. If raw force won't deter the Riverfolk, we'll cut them off from their village. Simple tricks with rope and arrows will do them no good.'_

_Two days,_ thought Kohl. _Two days at least before Xiu arrives._

'_Perhaps magic can cut it to one. After all, they won't have a bound prisoner to carry with them. And I'm not concerned about leaving the forest intact when time is precious. We'll level the woods and mountains if we must.'_

_The channelers won't move quickly._

'_They will learn. We'll make them keep pace. I won't have these Riverfolk take the spring ground.'_

_Why? _

'_You know this well, don't you? How much we rely on magic? '_

_It is our way._

'_Yes, it is. We depend on it for our survival. It makes us … vulnerable.'_

Kohl frowned.

'_When daylight comes, gather your forces and secure the mountain. You only need hold until Xiu arrives.'_

The fire flickered and sparked. The night went quiet, but for the burning of embers and Akane's shallow breaths.

_So it is, my Lady. Without our magic, we're weak._

Kohl stared at his guest, an unexpected ally against the wilderness. To think this small, fragile outsider had defended him in battle—it was absurd. There was no other word for it. _Absurd._

She was taller than he was—at least, in this body. Not by much, of course. Maybe a finger's width.

She beat that creature, that chimera with bird claws and lizard scales. She thrashed it on a busted ankle.

She beat it without magic.

He knew this girl. At the standoff outside the Maze, she emerged from cover and yelled out with questions, dire questions.

About Saotome Ranma. It all came back to him.

"He's my fiancé," Akane had said. Hours ago it had been, when the moon was still low. She'd sat on the log, warming her hands by the fire. "It's funny; I've only ever known him the way he is. Cursed, I guess. He wanted so much to come back here and be cured, but the way he left … it wasn't right."

"Wasn't right?" said Kohl.

"Do you know him? Have you seen him?"

"I'm sorry. I don't know this Ranma. I'm just an assistant."

"Really?" She sighed. "He came here, but it wasn't just about his curse anymore. I said something so terrible to him. I told him he wasn't a man."

"Because of his 'curse'?"

"No. I thought … oh, gods, I don't know what I was thinking. That he was leading us all on and pretending—I don't know. I just wanted to hear him say it again."

"Say what?"

"That he loved me."

Kohl blinked.

"I think, before, I wouldn't have told anybody, but that's just hiding the truth." She smiled weakly. "In some ways, I'm glad I can say it now, but if I could take it all back, I would. When Ranma didn't come home, when we heard that your people had taken him—I had to come. I needed to come. I owe him whatever I can do to bring him back."

That much Kohl could understand: the debts men owe one another. A farmer borrows a shovel, so he lends his hoe to his neighbor the next day. A seamstress wants for thread, so she unwinds a spool and makes a blanket for the merchant who gave it to her. People do little favors for us, and it's all we can hope for to pay them back in kind.

_Tilaka._

Where Akane spoke freely of her reasons to journey here, Kohl kept quiet. He'd hid in silence for years, letting no one know the truth, no one but the Lady. Someone had to be Sieve, after all. The Lady decided it should be Tilaka. The Lady always knew that Kohl was involved, too—that they'd both shown their true bodies to each other, but she demanded from Kohl only his service as punishment. The Lady was judge and jury. Her ruling should not be questioned.

But that didn't make it just. That didn't quell the whispers and rumors among the Guard when they doused Tilaka in hot water and dragged the _boy_ up the tower. A grievous sin she must've committed—no, _he_ must've committed. They only spoke of Tilaka's sin and perversion.

And again Kohl said nothing.

"Can't you tell us what you've done with him?" Akane had said before, hiding among the rocks outside the Maze. "Isn't there something you want?"

Kohl looked upon Akane, his gaze serious and stern.

_To make good on a debt of my own. That's the only reason we're here, the reason why we need this fiancé of yours. I don't know what else the Lady has in mind, but that's why _I'm_ here. The sooner Saffron is taken and assumes the Sieve's duties, the sooner Tilaka is no more a prisoner of our sins…_

Yet, even if Saffron became the Sieve, no one would know of Kohl's folly, the sin he committed with Tilaka at the edge of the sacred spring, all those years ago. No one but the Lady.

The fumes of burnt vision dust dissipated. His communion with Sindoor now over, Kohl tied the pouch of powder back to his belt, and Akane slept soundly, none the wiser. Strange, it was, to have this outsider girl here. Strange that she felled the chimera, that she could speak so openly and freely of her debts to another, even to a stranger such as he.

_You lack our magic, Tendō Akane, yet I think—I feel—you are stronger than me._

Kohl closed his eyes, clutching the half-empty canteen, whose waters sloshed within. He felt the water in his mind, for the free flow of magic coursed through his body, the captain's body, the body he was born with. Dark of night clouded not his mind's eye, yet such perfect sight was only that: a sense of things. Not strength, courage, or determination. It's easy to be strong when a simple thought can rain fire on your enemies or, for the most powerful Sorcerer ever to have lived, reduce their bodies to ash.

It was for this reason Kohl waited by the fire, letting the night slip by, for though he held the canteen in his hand, the head of the flame radiated away. He'd warmed these waters to change his body, and only time would cool them.

His only regret was that they'd have nothing to drink in the morning.

#

"I can't believe I slept in so late!"

Unwinding her ankle dressing, Tendō Akane yawned.

"I never sleep this late," she said. "Not ever."

Kohl wiped his dagger clean on the folds of his tunic. "When do you usually awaken?"

"Five o'clock, every morning." She rubbed her ankle. "If my leg were good, I think I'd like to go for a run."

A two-headed lizard scurried past, shooting fire from its nostrils.

"I'd consider that unwise," said Kohl.

"Yeah, I guess you're right." She looked to the mountain, shading her eyes from the sun. "Still, it's weird to be just getting up so late. I don't know why I'm so, so…" She yawned. "…groggy."

Kohl rubbed lightly on the poisoned blade, scrubbing at a small spot of blood. "You prefer mornings?" he said.

"Definitely! To be up as the sun rises—it's like you're waking up with the whole world."

Kohl chuckled to himself.

"What's so funny?"

"You make the earth sound as if it's alive."

Akane smiled. "When I run along the canal and hear the birds singing, it's hard to think otherwise."

"I dislike mornings."

"Why's that?"

"They're cold."

Akane laughed. "Well, I guess that's true." She sighed. "I still don't understand why I slept in so late."

"I'd put it out of your mind."

She tilted her head. "Maybe it was that girl."

"A girl?"

"In a dream I had. Strange dream it was—almost like she was right here with us, sitting by the fire."

"What did she look like?"

"Kind of long hair, brown with a tint of red. Her eyes were kind of like yours, though."

Kohl grimaced.

"She was talking to someone, but…"

He took out a cloth and ran it down the length of the dagger, coating its blade in a thin film of toxin.

"…I don't remember what they were saying."

"Is that so?"

She nodded sheepishly. "I suppose it's not too strange a dream. I've had worse."

"You have?"

A pinch of red colored her cheeks. "Um, sometimes."

Kohl sheathed the dagger, letting out a breath.

"I guess we should part ways now, shouldn't we."

He raised an eyebrow.

"You have your people to get to, and I have mine."

"You're still injured."

"I'll manage," she said. "Thank you for sharing your fire, though. I'm sure I would've been freezing all night if it weren't for that."

"How do you propose to get back to the tree line?" Kohl gestured to the springs below, overflowing with water as far as the eye could see. "There's no path out."

"The water has to recede eventually, right? And maybe there is a way down. Maybe on the other side of the mountain. Who knows?"

"That's absurd to think so."

"I have to try," she said, stretching her leg. "For Ranma's sake."

Kohl looked up the mountain, to the peak high above them. _Even if you go back to the Riverfolk, you won't find Ranma. He's in the mountain, where I left him. All you're doing is fighting for nothing._

"Well," she said with a bow, "thank you again for your hospitality. Goodbye."

Kohl kicked dirt over the campfire, extinguishing the flames. "It's foolish for either of us to go alone if we can help it," he said. "The mountain is still dangerous to both sides."

Akane blinked, perplexed. "What are you saying?"

"We should stay together," said Kohl, "until it's apparent we've found my people or yours."

"So we have a truce until then?"

Kohl nodded once.

"All right." Akane took a thick tree branch and put her weight upon it. "I wasn't really looking forward to making my way down like this anyway."

And so, Kohl and Akane trekked around the mountain, neither ascending the peak nor spiraling down to the flooded springs. They maintained a level height, for Kohl led the way, and after several days establishing a presence here, he knew well this mountain and its features. Despite the cataclysm Akane described, Kohl found his bearings in daylight soon enough.

In truth, their path wasn't very fair to Akane at all.

_I can't travel with this outsider simply for my own amusement. I follow the Lady's orders in letter and spirit. The Lady wishes us to secure the spring ground, and this girl knows our enemy._

He eyed Akane's swollen ankle, wrapped in cloth and bound in a loosely-tied shoe.

_I do what I must._

Reaching a bend in the path, Kohl braced himself. The abandoned house would soon come into sight, and with it, he hoped, the bulk of his men, too. Akane would expect Kohl to honor their truce.

Thus he should catch her by surprise, never let her suspect. What could he use as a weapon?

He put a hand to his dagger hilt. Of course that would be the best choice, the final choice. Even a slight nick should subdue her, but daggers were conventional weapons, something an outsider would expect. More than that, she'd seen his dagger, and even if she didn't know it, he'd cut her with it before.

No, if he meant to surprise her, he should use magic, what limited magic this body could muster. A small flame in the palm of his hand, perhaps, or a spark between his fingertips. Something simple. Something that wouldn't tire him. Something to frighten her into submission, if she could be so intimidated. Something—

"Eh?" Her footsteps halted, crinkling on pebbles and dirt.

Kohl looked over his shoulder. "What is it?"

"I thought I saw something…"

He twitched. Could it be she already suspected, already knew?

"P-chan!"

_P-chan? _

A black piglet crossed their path, staring curiously at Kohl and Akane.

"It's you, isn't it, P-chan?" Akane hopped forward on her walking stick and crouched before the little pig. "Come here, won't you? How did you get to this place? What happened to your bandana?"

The pig backed away, squeaking.

"What's the matter?" said Akane. "Something wrong?"

The piglet scampered down the path, squealing and crying.

"Hey, come back!" Akane brushed by her hiking partner, giving chase.

"Oof!" said Kohl. "What's the meaning of this?"

"It's my pet piglet from home!" she said. "I've got to go after him!"

"But—"

"P-chan!" Akane rounded the bend, running gingerly on her bad foot. "Come back!"

Trotting behind her, Kohl looked to the cliffside. The guide's house was there. Sentries peered from the cliffs, and the company of Sorcerers answered their calls, stirring to action.

Yet Akane was oblivious. She chased the little piglet as best she could on her bad leg, shuffling gingerly off the path and down the soft, collapsing soil.

"P-chan!" She cornered the animal by a boulder, crouching down to offer her hand. "What's the matter? Are you scared?"

"Bwee bwee?"

Akane flinched. It was the sound P-chan would make.

Except he wasn't the one making it.

There were dozens of them, watching from tree roots and burrows in the ground. A veritable litter of black piglets, all staring at Akane, all making that same squeaking sound.

"P-chan?"

The piglets scattered, running down the mountain, shaking their tails.

Kohl eased himself down the gravelly slope. "Something the matter?"

"I'm not really sure."

"Come," said Kohl, a hand on his knife. "We should get back to the path."

Akane looked up, past him, to the cliffs and the house beyond. Kohl didn't ask what she saw behind him, but he could guess well enough. If they did as he trained them, the company of Sorcerers would surround them in minutes, if that.

"What is this, Kohl?" she asked him. "Where have you led us?"

"There's no need to be agitated."

"Says the man with a knife!"

Kohl grimaced. "You have your mission, and so do I. Please." He pulled out the knife. "This need not get violent."

FWAP! A hiking boot jarred the blade from his hands. The knife clattered on the ground, and Akane spun on her good foot.

WHAM! Her walking stick smacked against his shoulder, splitting in two.

CRUNCH! A jab to the gut doubled him over, knocking the air from his lungs.

"I saved you from that creature!" she cried. "Is this how you repay a good deed?"

Kohl shut his eyes. With the sparse magic he could force from his body, he raised rocks and pebbles into a cylindrical shield, surrounding Akane.

"Are you done now?" said Kohl.

Punch! She shattered a rock with her bare knuckles. She kicked and swiped at the barrier, tearing a hole to get free.

"I respect your tenacity," said Kohl, "but I'm sorry. I can't let this continue anymore."

With his eyes, he spied a flat rock floating behind her and guided it with a mental slingshot, straight to Akane's heel.

"Ahh!" Her foot buckled; she fell to a knee. She held her arms over her head and face, protecting herself.

Gravel crunched underfoot. The Sorcerer Guard descended around them, battle staves at the ready. They encircled Akane, taking position just outside the rock shield.

"Advisor," said one of the men. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," said Kohl. "I'll recover."

"And this outsider?"

"Take her back with us. She may be useful."

Akane watches this exchange with wide eyes, for though she couldn't understand their words, the meaning came through, loud and clear. "You're not just an assistant, are you?" she said to Kohl.

"No."

She nodded once, raising her open hands above her head. "You know, I almost wish I didn't find you back there, even if it would've meant sleeping in the cold for a night."

"Do you really think you'd have survived? In the cold, on a bad ankle, with all the creatures roaming this mountain?"

"I'd have tried."

"Yes," said Kohl, "I expect you would've."

Holding her at staff-point, the Sorcerer Guard walked Akane uphill to the Guide's abandoned home, now the Sorcerers' stronghold on the mountain, and while they locked her in a room and kept her under guard, Kohl, for his part, emptied a jar of hot water and poured it over his head.

_It was a mistake,_ he thought to himself. _Leaving this body. Had there been anyone else about, anyone to take her side, she could've beaten me. Had my men taken any longer to arrive, she could've broken free._

And what if she had? If she'd escaped, was there anything to fear from this girl?

_There's always something to fear from an enemy with resolve, determination._

And make no mistake—as kind as she might've been to defend him, as naïve as she'd been in trusting him—she was his enemy. She was all their enemy.

"Captain?"

Once again safe and on his throne, Kohl sipped tea by the Guide's table, watching over the springs from a wide window.

"I'm sorry," said Kohl, watching his deputy's reflection in the glass. "What were you saying?"

"Our men continue hunting the Riverfolk presence on the mountain," said the junior officer, "but they've penetrated the tunnels."

"Leave the mountain interior to the priests for now," said Kohl. "The Riverfolk have a foothold, the ability to penetrate the Maze. That is our primary concern. That is what we must eradicate."

"One of our scouts returned late last night," said the deputy. "He escaped the Riverfolk and their foothold."

"We know the location of their presence here?"

"We do, captain."

"Ready a strike force."

"Understood." The deputy moved to go but hesitated at the doorway.

"Something troubles you?"

"Would it be wise to interrogate the prisoner, confirm our intelligence?"

"How would you interrogate the prisoner?"

"Captain?"

"What methods?"

The deputy blinked. "With force, if needed. Or we could bring in the priests…"

The priests. The same people who wore down the Sieve, shut him in that hole…

"I will handle any interrogation," said Kohl.

The deputy raised an eyebrow.

"I trust our own first-hand accounts of the foothold over whatever we may glean from her," said Kohl. "Ready the strike force."

"Understood." The deputy bowed and departed, and once more Kohl was left alone, left to study the springs below and his own, faint reflection in the window.

The image of a girl.

_But I'm still Kohl inside. I'm a man inside this girl's body._

The reflection narrowed her eyes.

_Saotome Ranma looks this way too, doesn't she? She believes herself a man, though she is misguided._

And Akane? Born in the body of a girl, she should be like Kohl. If these outsiders could only know the blessing of the spring…

No, even these waters wouldn't change their minds. This Akane he'd met—she talked of marrying a man. She thought of herself as a girl, and though determined and bold she was, that wouldn't change.

_You can't make these people accept anything else,_ thought Kohl. _Not quickly._

Outside, Kohl's men gathered at the deputy's command, shouting their allegiance to Sindoor, their devotion to this cause.

_They don't understand us, and we don't need to understand them. This is our mountain now. We need the Sieve. Everyone who might stand in our way has no place here. We will force them out, or they will die. They're only human; we're not. We're not the same._

Kohl turned down the blinds, blocking the girl's reflection in the window.

_We're not the same at all._

#

Later that morning, the shadows of the tree line receded. The Amazon brigade at forest's edge warmed themselves by fire and sunlight.

And a company of Sorcerers flew out to meet them, wielding the elements to make them bow down.

* * *

**Next:** Suspicious of the priest Henna, Ranma ventures into the mountain's tunnels once more, but hours without potable water take their toll on his body and mind. **Ranma's quest for freedom continues with "Monsters and Demons" Part IV - "Water" - Coming July 2, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	23. Monsters IV: Water

**Note: ** as a result of restructuring, chapter four will consist of one additional act—that is, seven instead of the six I thought it would finish in. Acts will continue to be posted on schedule, however, at least through the completion of "Monsters and Demons," so you can look forward to the finale of this arc by July 23.

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** There's something in the water, something that's robbed Ranma of his strength. Now, to regain it, he returns to the tunnels of Kensei, hoping to find fresh water—or a means of escape—before thirst renders him too weak to fight.

* * *

**Water**

_Chapter Four, Act Four_

While Kohl dispatched his forces to drive the Amazons from the spring ground, those already on the mountain spied on the Sorcerers from afar. As floodwaters enveloped the crater of the Phoenix and Dragon, Cologne and her men carved out a small sanctuary among the rocks. From there they watched the Sorcerers fly over the flooded springs, on their way to make war.

"So," said Cologne, putting her eyes to the horizon. "The Sorcerers persist after all." Her gaze hardened. "We must move quickly. Shampoo is brash and lacks caution. Lieutenant!"

"Yes, elder?" said one of her men.

"How goes the—" Cologne twitched. "Listen, child, I've not been an elder of any sort for twenty years."

"My apologies, elder."

Cologne sighed. "We can quibble over titles later. How long until we breach the tunnels?"

Standing in a circle, a dozen Amazons hacked and slashed at the rocky ground, shaping a conical divot in the mountainside.

"Not long," said the lieutenant.

"Pray you're correct," said Cologne, watching the Sorcerers float into the distance. "My son-in-law is close; I sense it. We must hurry."

#

Whether cursed or not, all people have basic needs. Some of these needs are psychological—the desire for love and companionship, for instance, or one's yearning to trust in others, but other needs are physiological. The need for vitamins (A, D, B6, B12) or protein. The need for vital amino acids that we can't make for ourselves.

We all need food or sustenance.

And we need water.

Parched and famished, Ranma coughed, choking on a throat so lacking in water that it cracked like the plains of a desert. He swallowed, but the sparse saliva in his mouth gave him no comfort, no solace. The dryness in his throat only ached harder when partially sated, and he knew, in the end, swallowing his own spit wouldn't save him. He massaged his jaw and neck with one hand and flexed his empty fist with the other.

_I _am_ stronger now,_ he thought. _The Sorcerers—that Henna—they tried to slip me something in the water. They tried to make me weak._

In the grand menagerie of cursed monsters, Ranma spied his reflection in a bowl of green clay. The water it held was clear, but his nose crinkled to smell it. Something about this water was foul, as foul as the barrels of spring water that Henna kept, water that cursed all the animals around him into creatures of unspeakable horror.

_No, Henna. You can't be trusted, either._

Ranma tilted the bowl, and the water flowed out, spilling on the floor. The collection of animals cried out, protesting this waste, but Ranma paid them no heed.

"I entrust to you my laboratory until I return," Henna had said, departing with hot water and a lamp to guide her way. "Do what you can for these animals, will you? That's all I ask in return for my hospitality."

"Bah." Ranma took a torch from the wall and tied a jar of curse water to a leather strap. Unlike Henna, he had no interest in being jailor for the damned. Armed with fire and the springs' magic, he ventured out again, into the labyrinth of suffering, of the condemned.

In truth, it wasn't the first time Ranma battled hunger and thirst. On his journeys with his father, he learned many things: how to kick through a boulder in a single blow, how to steal an okonomiyaki cart without a fight—but more importantly, how to survive on crumbs and dewdrops. Sure, some of that involved petty stealing, but those methods wouldn't work here, not in this dark maze of cursed pools and animals. Nay, when there's no one to steal from, you have to rely on yourself. You have to make the best of the environment and take from it whatever it'll give.

Mushrooms, mostly, although in this rocky interior of the mountain, the pickings of fungi were understandably thin. All the same, Ranma ate half of what he collected (small-capped mushrooms with narrow stems) and saved the rest to roast later. They'd hold him over for a time, but with the toll of crawling around these cavernous tunnels, he'd need something more substantial.

Like scorpions. As long as you make sure they won't sting you on the way down, they could be quite tasty, if a bit bitter. Sort of like a prawn.

And then there were the grubs and worms. In one bite, they exploded like a sacs of pus. Eventually, that sticky, pasty feeling washed out. _Eventually_ being minutes, hours, days…

All small potatoes, this feasting on insects and spiders. It was the sort of subsistence hunting that might sustain his life, but would it put him in shape to fight? With whatever stuff the Sorcerers slipped him, would these insect carapaces flush out their poison and make him strong again? And how long would that take?

Would he be able to punch his way out of this mountain before he gave in to thirst?

That was the problem. For all the bugs and mushrooms he gobbled down, he still mistrusted the water around him.

_Hell, for all I know, eating these grubs will put enough curse water in my body to sprout wings from my back._

Frowning, he reached over his shoulder and slapped.

_Well, so far so good._

Nevertheless, water was still an issue. With all the water around him plainly undrinkable, Ranma had a difficult choice: accept Henna's tainted water or suffer thirst until his strength returned. In this, he played with himself a game of chicken, for he knew the effects of dehydration well. He knew them because he'd been through them before. His heart beat fast, faster than it should for just walking around these damp tunnels. His breathing quickened and shallowed. The tips of his fingers tingled, as if pricked by a thousand pins. How long had it been since he had a genuine gulp of water? A day, maybe two? Either way, it was enough. Maybe the Sorcerers' weaksauce additive would break down over time, but without water, any strength he gained back would be erased by increasing fatigue and lethargy.

_Did you seriously just use the word _weaksauce_? _

There are many other effects of dehydration, too. Headaches, nausea, painful urination—

_Hold on; I'm talking to you! _

Muscle spasms, abdominal pain, shriveled skin—

_I ain't got any 'shriveled skin,' dammit! I'm fine! _

Confusion. Hallucinations. Seizures.

Ranma groaned, shaking himself. _Right. Let's focus on water then. Cold, refreshing, totally uncursed water. That'll solve all my problems._

All the better if that water came with girls. Girls in thin, tight-fitting t-shirts, soaked through to the skin…

_Oh, come on, gross! _ After a moment's disgust, however, he cocked his head and smirked. _I'd win that contest, though._

But with what water to do it? With the droplets that dripped from the ceiling? With the shallow puddles and streams that seeped through the rock? What water in this underground prison didn't tingle with the power of magic?

And the creature of the mountain opposed him, too. Though most animals scurried from his torch's light, not all would be frightened so easily. An owl, trotting on horse's hooves, buzzed by his head with a cry, and no swipe of the torch would deter it. Bears with tigers' tails frantically guarded their dark corners of the mountain, slashing with cat claws. And though Ranma was weak of body, he was still sharp of mind for combat. What fire wouldn't ward off or scare away he doused in the curse water he carried with him: water from the Spring of Drowned Rabbit. After all, when was the last time a rabbit posed a significant threat?

_Probably a long time ago if you're anything but a carrot._

Rabbits were all well and good—in fact, they could be quite tasty if you kill them quickly. As delectable as rabbit meat was, it's somewhat difficult to justify eating one when it makes a high-pitched squeak as you snap its neck.

Well, difficult if you're not starving, anyway. Ranma cornered small insects and worms, dousing them in the rabbit water. With a twist and a squeak, the rabbits went limp, primed for Ranma to string up and carry on his way.

Actually, if you do it right, you can control the pitch of the squeak. You can make the rabbits play a song as they die. "The Dirge of the Roasted Hare," you might call it.

It's just hard to play a rabbit like that twice.

Ranma winced. _Oh man, I've got to get some water in me fast._

As a point of fact, they sound a little bit like a xylophone—

_Wait._

Maybe a glockenspiel?

_No, no, wait! _ Ranma slung the cord of rabbit carcasses over his shoulder, crouching to the ground. He eyed the rock, puzzling over it. _What's this? _

It looked like an imprint on the rock, wet and oblong, with neat edges. Perhaps it'd be fair to call it a footprint?

_Don't get coy with me; I know it's a footprint! _

Well, if a footprint is a footprint, what exactly is the issue here?

_It's not mine._

It's Henna's, then?

_I don't think so._

You don't really have that much to go on, do you?

_You mean beside this _other_ set of footprints here? _

Now you're just being inconvenient.

_How's that? _

If you follow the footprints, we can't go back to talking about dead rabbits, can we.

_What? _

Isn't it an interesting feeling, knowing that you hold the power of life and death in your hands? Even if only over these tiny critters you'd make your dinner?

…_what? _

Never mind. Pay no attention to the voice of dehydration in your head. This is just an illusion of your thirst, after all.

Ranma held up the string of rabbit carcasses: three limp bodies bound together by a single thread. Their fur, damp but warm, matted close to the skin. Their eyes stared at him, as if a single glance spoke a thousand curses in his name.

_No,_ thought Ranma. _I really don't._

Ranma had no inclination to ponder the life and death of an animal, however. He had a trail to follow, and follow it he would. Ranma tracked the footprints through the tunnels, clinging to the slightest hint of shoe or foot. Whomever these prints belonged to, Ranma wanted to know. If they were Sorcerers, he'd know he wasn't alone anymore in these tunnels. If they had water, who better to swipe it from? Make them drink the cursed water. They seemed fond enough of curses as it was.

But the people Ranma found looked not like Sorcerers. Patches of white on their clothes reflected a torch's fire—not at all like the stark black tunics of the Sorcerer Guard. A man with long, dark hair carried a sword by his hip, and a woman with twin braids slipped a bow over her shoulder, tightening the straps on her quiver.

_That's right. All Wuya wanted to know when she questioned me was about some River people. They must've attacked. They must be the Sorcerers' enemy._

An enemy of the Sorcerers was all well and good, but that didn't make them his friends.

'_Oh, hello, you were taken by the Sorcerers, you say? Why don't you come with us and let us beat the truth out of you while you tell us about their defenses?' Yeah, no thanks._

Still, the prospect was better than crawling through these tunnels alone. Ranma extinguished his torch in a puddle, lest its light give him away, and crept in the shadows of the Riverfolk. The pair of warriors scoured the tunnels, seemingly at random.

_Are they looking for something? No, better question: how'd they get in? _

That the Riverfolk answered themselves. After a fashion of wandering the tunnels (and fighting off its angry creatures with the point of an arrow), the man and woman led Ranma back to the source: a column of moonlight, around which a dozen warriors stood guard. A hole in the tunnel ceiling opened the way for these invaders, who came and went as they pleased.

_I guess they're being thorough? _ Ranma hid in damp shadow, watching from a distance. _Well, no better way than to come out as I am. If they want to take me prisoner for just being here, well, that's my luck, isn't it._ He stepped forward, ready to meet the world outside for the first time in days.

But his foot slipped on wet rock.

"Urk!" He fell to to a knee, bracing himself on a wall.

And the Riverfolk took notice. Cloaked in darkness as he was, could they see him? Did they know someone was watching? Did they suspect?

Assuredly they did, for in a quick, seamless motion, the girl with the bow notched an arrow against her string. She lined the fletchings to her eye and pointed the arrowhead down the dark tunnel.

Ranma turned and ran, stumbling through the dark. _Aw, come on, don't—_

Flick, thud.

For a moment, his muscles turned to jelly. He collapsed on the wet, rocky floor. He couldn't see the arrow, but he felt it sure enough. The arrowhead wedged against his shoulderblade. The shaft stuck out and wobbled. The fletches caught stray eddies in the air. Ranma reached across his neck, feeling the base of the wound, and in the dark, he only knew it was hot and pulsing. It throbbed. It seeped. It dripped.

It dripped with his blood, his water, his salts—they drained away. Water and salt plipped on the floor of the dark tunnel, a fluid nigh undrinkable except to the likes of Lugosi and his kin.

Water and blood, the stuff of life. The stuff seeping out of Ranma, taking his life.

_No,_ he thought. _Not today._

He flung the string of rabbit carcasses aside. What good is food if you can't eat when you're dead? He tucked the jar of curse water under his good arm and shoved off, scrambling back down the tunnels. There was no time to linger here, no time to yank the shaft from his wound—indeed, that would only let it bleed more freely. No, he kept running, and the arrow flopped behind him.

The Riverfolk gave chase. Two by two, they scurried after him, the light of their torches nipping at his back. The girl who fired the lucky shot strung her bow once more, arrow at the ready, but they knew not what Ranma could lead them to, not in these tunnels.

What he could lead them to while fumbling in the dark, anyway. He ran blindly from the guttural cries of bears and wolves, from the ringing screeches of birds and the hissing of snakes. He flung water from the Spring of Drowned Rabbit in his path, lest anything substantial get in his way, but he took comfort in waking the mountain, stirring up its beasts, for these creatures would look ill upon his pursuers, too.

Flick, flick, flick. The River Warrior with her bow silenced the animals with quick, precise shots.

_Good for you guys. For me? No more of this running in the dark._

He barreled down the mountain, back the way he came. He turned a corner and clung to the tunnel wall, and when the Riverfolk rounded the bend—

Trip, thud, tumble. The pair of warriors hit the deck, losing their footing over Ranma's shin. Ranma snatched their torch as it rolled away and broke for it, dodging arrows and puddles of curse water.

_What am I supposed to do? Go back to Henna? That's great. From one enemy to another._

He dashed down a dark tunnel, hoping to leave the Riverfolk in the black.

GRR!

But a shiny, dripping maw greeted him. A two-headed dog, bristling with sharp, pointed hairs on its back, bared its teeth, growling.

"Come on; I don't have time for this."

The mutt charged! It leapt forward through curse water, splashing droplets in its path.

Ranma dove aside, banging his shoulder on the rock. "Guh!" He scrambled to his feet, searching for his enemy.

But the angry dog was dog no more. It transformed before his eyes, taking instead the shape of a long-tusked boar.

"Well fine," said Ranma. "Dog or pig, you'll be a hare soon enough!" He brought forth the jar of Drowned Rabbit water and thrust it on the boar's tusk, emptying the jar.

Yet the creature didn't disappear within the clay like a small, innocent rabbit would.

"What the hell?" He pulled back the jar—still hanging it was on the creature's tusk—and revealed the beast's face.

A face with the angry eyes and tusks of a wild boar.

And with the tall, perky ears of a rabbit. Ears … and fangs.

"No way," said Ranma, scrambling back. "You—you've got to be kidding me!"

The hare-boar jumped with powerful, springy legs, bringing its tusks to bear!

Flick. An arrow speared it in the gut. The hare-boar flopped, limping.

Flick. A shot to the throat did it in.

Panting, cradling his arrow wound, Ranma dropped the torch and lay sideways on the tunnel floor.

"Well?" he said to the River people. "It's too late now. If I try to run, you'll just shoot me anyways."

The lead warrior, the girl with the bow, eyed him strangely.

"What? Don't just stare at me like that. Out with it."

"You Ranma?" she said.

"Am I—" He stopped. "How do you—no, wait. Where did you learn—"

The girl held out two pieces of paper. Photos they were—one of a boy with a pigtail, the other of a girl—a girl with long, dark hair who clung to him, pressing her all her body's assets against his back.

"It's me and Shampoo," he said, flipping between the snapshots. "You guys…" His heart skipped a beat. "Amazons?"

Crack. A fault tore up the tunnel wall, dividing the cavern in two.

Ranma rolled to his feet, eying the line. "High ground," he told the Amazons. "Get to high ground."

They stared blankly.

"I said get up—"

CREAK, BAM! The tunnel shattered; water gushed into the open space.

Ranma scrambled up the far wall, clinging to slippery footholds. "Hey!" he cried. "You guys still down there?"

The roar of the torrent drowned the Amazons and whatever the might've said in answer. A light shined upon them, bright and pure, more plain and white than the torch Ranma clutched in his hand. Over the rushing waters floated a man with a lamp. In white robes with gold and jade trim, he flew effortlessly, safe from the cursed waters' spray.

"Who the hell are you?" said Ranma. "You one of Henna's priests, too?"

From the priest's belt, a small dart removed itself, spinning before them.

"Oh great. I get to go—"

Flick. The dart lodged itself in Ranma's bicep.

…_sleep again._

Should've stuck with the dead rabbits.

_Oh shut up._

Thanks to the poisoned dart, the world faded to black, and Ranma felt, only faintly, the two arms that caught his weight, saving him from the torrent below.

_I said, 'Shut up!'_

Oh yes. Sorry.

#

"I find this deeply saddening."

How much time passed while he slept Ranma couldn't say, but when he awoke, thick iron bars walled him into a prison, a jail cell carved out of Henna's laboratory wall.

_Wait. This niche in the rock wasn't here before…_

"Our arrangement—was it not satisfactory to you?"

All these damned Sorcerers. Did it somehow make them feel better to think they had some "agreement" between "equals"? Did that absolve them from the black business of holding someone against their will?

"Do you disapprove of this work?" said Henna, mixing water in her cauldron. "Don't you care for the animals here?"

Animals? What animals? Animals like the bird in the cage with compound eyes and gossamer wings? Or like the ball of earthworms, each conjoined to the others in a single, central body?

"Hold on a second," said Ranma, shaking the bars. "I cured some of these animals! What did you do to them?"

"Restored them to the bodies they were born with," said Henna. "That was but the first step in the experiment."

"And what's the second?"

"Seeing how long it would last," she said. "Seeing how the water from one's own birth-form might mix and merge with other blessings."

"Merge them? What do you mean?"

Henna took a ladle from her cauldron and held it over the cage of a rat. "This is a rodent," she said. "One whose blessing you deleted in my service. And I am thankful. The rodent is still wet, however, so when I apply this water…"

She overturned the ladle, and the rat grew bird's wings, even as it kept its tail and fangs.

"See?" said Henna. "Very curious, isn't it?"

"That's disgusting! You're a mad woman, every bit as mad as Sindoor!"

"I assure you, I am not."

"Not mad?"

Henna grimaced. "That's not what I meant."

Ranma punched on the iron bars once more for good measure, but already he felt his captivity taking its toll on him. His knuckle reddened from the impact; weakness wouldn't let him break these bars so easily.

And water? The spit in his mouth stuck on his tongue like a white paste. His eyes stung, dry and pained when he blinked. He reached over his shoulder, fingering the hole in his shirt where the arrow had stuck him, and though he knew not what magic Henna used to heal, the how or why his skin was perfect and smooth where the arrow shaft should be, he knew well enough he lost blood through that wound. He lost salt and water, water he wouldn't take back from the bowl on the floor of his prison, the bowl that smelled of magic when he sniffed it.

"Aren't you grateful that I healed you?" said Henna. "Do you know the strength of magic required to close such a wound?"

Ranma rolled his eyes, silent, tapping idly on the bars. _Doesn't matter if you heal my body. I'm dying out here, and if I have to choose between living as a weak little runt for whatever you gave me and dying…_

He glanced at the bowl of water.

_Dammit. There's got to be some other way._

Pip pip.

Ranma's finger twitched. _That wasn't me._

Outside his cell, a bird pecked at the wooden supports of her own cage. Adorned with the colors of the rainbow, the bird shimmered with shiny fish scales.

"Guess you've got a problem with being caged up, too," said Ranma.

Pip pip pip. The bird turned to peck at the bars then faced him warily.

Ranma frowned. With the edge of his fingernail, he tapped on the iron bar. Tap tap tap.

Pip pip pip pip went the bird.

Ranma tapped again, four times. Tap tap tap tap.

The bird pecked. Pip pip pip pip pip.

_All right. Let's try something different._ He held up two fingers, wiggling them one at a time.

Pip pip.

Ranma's guts knotted and churned.

_My gods. Some of them are human, too._

#

Numb with horror, shock, or thirst, Ranma slept again, head swirling with questions. Something had to be done, and he needed to be the one to do it, but with what strength? What magic? Even, as much as he dared to try, Shishi Hōkōdan and Mōko Takabisha failed him—a failure of emotion or another side-effect of the Sorcerers' elixir he couldn't say.

Either way, Ranma slept, but his night was not without dreams.

In the bizarre menagerie of Henna's lab, a lone figure sat by a fire, sprinkling powder into the flames, inhaling the fumes that poured into the room.

'_Do you know me, my lady?'_ said a man's voice. _'Do you feel me?'_

'_I feel you,'_ said Sindoor. _'What do you desire, my priest?'_

'_The Riverfolk have invaded the mountain; they may compromise our experiment at any time, I fear.'_

'_You need only hold through morning. The captain requested reinforcements, and the party I've sent is making good time. They will arrive, I promise, by dawn tomorrow.'_

'_And then, my lady?'_

'_Then the channelers will envelop the spring ground. Their maze will be so vast, the Riverfolk will never penetrate it again, and those that are trapped within will be mopped up by our forces. I will tolerate no interference in securing our new Sieve.'_

'_So you have no more need of me and my priests,'_ said the man.

'_Not so. Always you've been a faithful servant, and we share something others among us cannot. We both know how our bodies are inadequate. We understand that, even in the spring's blessed forms, we are still vulnerable and open to sin.'_ Even out of sight, the Lady's smile was palpable. _'Find us a way to fight and live without the bodies we were born with. Find us a way to live without sin.'_

'_As you wish, my Lady.'_ The man rose from his meditations and stomped the embers out.

Ranma bolted awake. "Wha?"

Smoke and darkness and chatter. The chatter of twisted animals. The smoke from incense powder. The darkness of an unlit room, save for the faint, glowing embers of an old fire.

Ranma tried to call out, but he choked on dryness, on a mouth devoid of moisture. Swallowing painfully, he composed himself, steadying his fast-beating heart.

Was it a dream?

Was it real?

_Real,_ thought Ranma. _I don't doubt it for a second; they're coming. The Amazons were here, trying to find me. Maybe it was that idiot Kunō or the Guide or who knows, but they were here. Shampoo's people. They're all going to be trapped with no way out. When those guys arrive._

He looked to the wooden cage outside his cell, to the small, shiny bird that lay there, sleeping.

_They're all going to be turned into _things_._

Panting, gritting his teeth, Ranma gripped the bars. He pulled; he yanked.

And maybe, just maybe, the metal buckled an inch.

* * *

**Next:** The Sorcerers commence the attack on the Amazon encampment. Their goal: to make sure no outsider breaches the Jusenkyō maze again. **Shampoo and the Amazons rise to defend their foothold in "Monsters and Demons" Part V - "The Red Sign" - Coming July 9, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	24. Monsters V: The Red Sign

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** As dusk fell over Jusenkyō, a Sorcerer scout escaped Shampoo's foothold encampment, retreating to the mountain. Now, on the second day of the flood, the Sorcerers come in full force, determined to drive every Amazon from the springs and solidify their hold over the mountain they've claimed.

* * *

**The Red Sign**

_Chapter Four, Act Five_

"I really should've gone back for my griddle."

Mid-morning at the tree line. Between campfires and makeshift tents, the Amazons awoke. With makeshift grindstones they sharpened their dagger and arrowheads. With nuts and berries they nourished their warrior bodies, for to make their muscles strong and eyes keen would protect them in battle.

A battle, they knew, must eventually come.

"Nuts and berries might be good enough for you people," said Ukyō, grabbing a handful of seeds from a pouch, "but if I don't get to cook something of substance here, I'll go crazy!"

Ryōga raised an eyebrow. Mousse rolled his eyes.

"She really will," said Konatsu, savoring the juices of a shriveled goji berry. "Ukyō-sama tried for a whole week to stop cooking okonomiyaki, but she couldn't do it, even if it meant cooking Ranma—"

Ukyō's quick hands smothered the next word, holding Konatsu's mouth shut. "I don't think they need to hear that whole story," she said, frantic. "Wait a minute. Who told you that, anyway?"

"You did?"

"I don't think so."

"Oh, um, that is, well, Ranma-sama told me! That must be it."

Ukyō laughed. "I don't think so, either."

"Why not?"

"Ranchan doesn't tell anybody anything."

"How do you mean?"

"That's just the kind of person he is. I mean, for starters, you'd think having a third or fourth girl after you would be a relevant thing to tell your fiancée, but I was in town for weeks before I heard anything about Shampoo."

Ryōga peered over his shoulder. "Speaking of Shampoo…"

At camp's edge, Shampoo paced, twirling her clubs, eying the mountain.

"Well, at least Shampoo-sama saw fit to let us rest," said Konatsu. "It used to be at home I only slept four hours a night!"

Ukyō looked to Mousse. "Did she sleep?" she asked him. "At all?"

"She only said she took the first watch." He rubbed his glasses clean on his shirt. "And the second. And the third."

The twin maces halted in her hands. Shampoo tensed.

"Careful," said Ukyō. "I think she heard you."

"I told her she should've handed off watch duty to someone else overnight. It's not good for her health to stay awake so long. She should've come to bed. I surely would've taken her."

Ryōga snorted.

"You think I can't show Shampoo a good time, pig boy?"

Shampoo's shadow towered over him. "Mousse."

He flinched. "Please, Shampoo, you know I would never deny you, not the way Saotome does. I—"

She yanked him by the collar and spun him around. Wrapping her hand around his neck, she dangled him precariously over the fire.

"Oh please, don't hurt me! Let me kiss your feet, polish your bulbs—I mean maces! Maces!"

She huffed. "Shampoo no hurt Mousse. Shampoo only have question."

"Anything!"

She twisted her neck, and over a slight groan, she pointed him toward the mountain. "What you see in sky there?"

"You really want to be asking _him_ that question?" said Ukyō.

Nevertheless, Mousse squinted, setting his eyes to small dark specs in the clouds. "I see dots."

"Dots?" said Shampoo.

"Yes, dots." He frowned. "But they're getting bigger."

"Is Sorcerer, no?"

His eyebrows shot up. "Sorcerers? You really think—"

KA-BLAM! A tree trunk exploded; bark showered over the camp.

"Down, Ukyō-sama!"

"Wha–oof!"

Konatsu tackled her, shielding her body with his own. Splinters lodged in his hair and cut across his bare arms, but he gritted his teeth, bearing the rain of shrapnel for her, even if it cost him pain.

Against rocky gravel, Ukyō struggled for leverage. "Hey, Konatsu? You okay?"

"Just fine!"

"Okay. You can get off of me now."

His eyes widened. "Eh?"

KA-BLAM! Another tree shattered, and fragments peppered their faces.

Shampoo brushed the wood and splinters away. "Archers!" she cried. "Archers fire!"

A flurry of arrows arced high. The air spun them around their shafts, providing precious stabilization as they flew.

But the Sorcerers soared above them. They floated high, where even shaded eyes missed them, where trained marksmen strained to line up their shots. With the sun as a safe backdrop, the Sorcerers raised boulders from the earth and hurled them back in flames. The ground shuddered. The tents burned. Animal sinews and synthetic fibers smoked and snapped.

"You can't stay safe up there forever!" said Ryōga, beating back the blaze. "Come down and fight, cowards!"

"Why should they?" Mousse, emptying a pail on the fires, sheltered himself behind a damp log. "We can't touch them up there. They have no reason to come down to us and fight fair. We should pull back!"

"Pull back to what?" said Ukyō. "There's nothing to 'pull back' to!"

Crouching behind a rock, Shampoo fetched a quiver and bow, firing to the clouds, but one by one the arrows dwindled.

And the Sorcerers did not.

"We can't defend ourselves here," said Mousse. "We should retreat to the main camp, outside the illusion!"

"And leave Akane-san here?" said Ryōga, taking cover under his umbrella. "Impossible! I won't permit it!"

"You're not in a position to choose!" Mousse pointed to the sky. "They are."

Shampoo reached into her quiver, finding nothing but air.

"We still have the ballista," said Mousse. "We can carry it on our own shoulders if we have to, but we _can't_ stay here! As long as they know where we've broken their illusion, we're not safe."

KA-BLAM! Flaming splinters showered over the Amazons, and a bent tree branch spread fire to the center of the encampment, lighting the thick rope. Their only lifeline to the outside burned.

"Shampoo!" said Mousse. "We need to go!"

The Amazon yanked a rock from the ground and hurled it skyward, as if to hurt the Sorcerers with mere sticks and stones.

"Shampoo!"

"Mousse give up if Mousse want!" she said. "Shampoo take out Sorcerer by herself if she have to!"

"But Shampoo, don't you see?" Mousse whipped off his glasses and marched to the closest feminine body he could see. He held her by the shoulders and stared her down with a steely gaze. "Look into my eyes and tell me: who's going to lead this party if you stay, if we lose you? You have to come back with us! Lead our people to safety!"

"Um, Mousse-sama?"

Mousse glanced over his shoulder. "What is it, Konatsu?"

"I don't think Ukyō-sama likes it when you look at her that way."

"Huh?" He blinked, putting his glasses back on.

And a spatula thwacked him over the head. "Your dramatic glasses pull needs work," said Ukyō.

Despite Mousse's failure to impress on Ukyō the urgency of the situation, Shampoo watched from her boulder. With an empty quiver on her back, she fished in her pockets, uncovering the red choker of silence, the string of beads Elder Surma had given her. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger on each of the gems, clutching the string lest it break or shatter.

"Mousse right," she said, holding the choker in a closed fist. "We come back when safe; we not let Sorcerers get away with this." Boldly, she leapt atop her boulder and called out for all to hear. "Amazons!" she yelled. "Listen to Shampoo! We fall back to outer camp! Go!"

With archers providing cover fire, the Amazons dashed back to center camp, crawling, creeping through the woods while tethered to the guide rope. Shampoo and Mousse chopped off the burning end, bringing up the rear.

"Something's wrong…" Ryōga gazed about, letting his grip on the rope waver. "Something isn't right!"

"Are you crazy?" Ukyō grabbed his hand and slapped the cord back into the palm. "Do you want to get yourself lost in here? We've got to go before they come after us!"

But the forest canopy only briefly deterred the Sorcerers. As the trees themselves exploded like landmines in the Amazons' path, the Sorcerers brought down columns of ice, freezing the forest floor. The caravan of Amazons broke down; warriors slipped on instant tundra and collided with their neighbors.

"Keep it together!" Mousse called from the rear. "Crawl on your knees if you have to. Don't give up!"

Clink. A Sorcerer pounced atop the ice. Twirling her battle staff, she brought the tip to the earth with a furious stroke.

CRACK! Shockwaves cut across the Amazon line. The rope split in two, with a gulf of devastation between the severed ends.

"Don't think you'll get away with that!" Chains shot from Mousse's sleeves, trapping the Sorcerer who dared doom herself by coming to ground. With a wicked yank, Mousse pulled her in. "Shampoo!"

She took a hand off the rope, grabbed her chúi, and batted the Sorcerer away with the bulb. THWAP!

Home run. Or it would've been, had the Sorcerer not slammed into the tree trunks.

But the damage was done. What once was a single column of Amazons had broken in two, and neither side dared move, lest they lose sight of the other for good in the Maze.

"Here, stay with me!" To the front half of the severed caravan, his magic chains shot out. The warriors at the trailing edge grabbed it, forming a new metal tether to hold the the two groups together.

"Wait!" Shampoo cradled her club between her arm and body, holding to the rope with one hand and searching her pockets with the other. "Shampoo lose something."

"I don't think we have time enough to dawdle for a lost keychain!" said Ukyō.

Shampoo looked about the forest floor, but at the tug of Mousse's hand, she gripped the guide rope and shuffled on.

Ducking fireballs and sliding over icy ground, the Amazons emerged from the Maze, charging into their own base camp. The main company scrambled to action, bows and maces at the ready, standing guard at illusion's edge, surrounding the mammoth wooden ballista.

"I need some bodies on the rollers!" said Mousse. "Get the ballista to a safe position!"

Eight warriors, two for each wheel, lugged the ballista forward by its twin axles. Archers blanked the canopy in arrows, yet while a Sorcerers here and there fell like flies in a bug zapper, the main strike force hovered above the treetops, searing the forest with solid beams of heat.

"Hold your fire!" Konatsu yelled to the archers. "I'm going up there!"

"Going up there?" said Ukyō. "Just what are you planning?"

"I call it the 'Divided Pizza Pie Attack'!"

"The _what_?"

Konatsu leapt high, kicking off a tree trunk to soar into the canopy, but when he landed, not just one kunoichi perched atop the trees. Konatsu's duplicate bodies tangled with the Sorcerers above, and with an enemy able to engage them in the sky, the Sorcerers' aim wavered. Their beams fizzled out.

"Ah, I get it," said Ryōga. "A pizza is usually cut into eight slices. See? There are eight copies of Konatsu up there."

Ukyō stared in disbelief. "That doesn't make it a good name for an attack! Anything would be better than that! Call it the 'Way of the Buddha' attack! It's an eightfold path, right?"

"You really want associate Buddhism with violence?"

"It's better than imagining an assault by deadly pepperoni!"

No matter how absurd the name of Konatsu's attack, its effectiveness couldn't be denied. With the Sorcerers distracted, the Amazons wheeled the ballista to a dirt trail, for where cover of the canopy wouldn't protect them, the speed of cleared, even ground might.

But the enemy refused to buckle so easily. From a single Sorcerer in the center of their formation, golden rays of light tethered him to his comrades. Energy pulsed and raced down the beams, and though Konatsu leapt in to disrupt the spell, bolts zapped him and his clones, fending him off.

The beams dissipated. The Sorcerer at the spell's focus glowed.

"Well," said Mousse. "That can't be good."

KA-BOOM! A pressure wave blasted the forest. Trees snapped. Boulders crumbled. Amazon and Sorcerer alike shied from the debris. The Sorcerers in the sky fell—as did Konatsu—and slammed into the dirt, but up above, one Sorcerer remained.

"So that's how they are," said Ukyō. "They'll sacrifice even their own kind to get their way."

The last Sorcerer brought his hands together at the wrists, and a flash of pure heat burst forth.

The ballista erupted. Sinewy coils snapped, flinging the firing arms into the forest. Metal bolts warped and melted. Fires charred the frame.

Their task accomplished, the Sorcerers retreated, seeking safety in the Maze, and the Amazons were helpless to follow.

#

Some people say that battle is hell, but the true torment begins once the last arrow falls. Your ears ring with the sounds of combat—explosions, arrows at their bows—but the battlefield is actually quiet; what you think you hear is just phantom noise. When adrenaline fades, fatigue and pain set in. Muscles ache, bruises throb, cuts bleed. Oh do they bleed. Scrapes and sores and lacerations. That's the worst part: having these continual, constant reminders—not of victory but sore, brutal defeat.

In the ruins of the outer camp, Ukyō fought that soreness. She rubbed the spasms from her arms, so she could hold her hand steady. She had little choice. What bumps and cuts she'd endured were minor. A split lip and the taste of her own blood she could bear, but there were others—so many others—who'd fared worse.

Some of they lay where they'd fallen, scattered among the twigs and pebbles. They sprawled like ragdolls, flung about in the Sorcerers' blast. Those who could move on their own rested on thin mats brought from their supply stores, but hospital beds they weren't. It wasn't medicine or even first-aid that the Amazons practiced there.

It was triage, and triage means sorting, separating. It picks out the seriously injured and focuses on them. Everyone better off than that will live for a while.

And everyone worse off will give back to the tribe in their own way, in the only way they have left: as heat, light, and ash from the funeral pyre.

Without a hint of Chinese in her vocabulary, Ukyō tended the simple injuries of her Amazon escorts, leaving more critical cases to those who could speak to their patients. She poured alcohol over scrapes and cuts, dabbing the wounds clean. There were lots of little injuries on the bodies of the Amazon warriors. Lots of cuts and not enough alcohol to sterilize them, not enough bandages keep them clean.

Not enough people to storm the illusion and rescue Akane, if she still lived, or Ranma, if he'd ever been there at all. Even Shampoo's great-grandmother stood to lose because they'd lost, too.

"How long will it be?" Ryōga cared for his own scrapes, unflinching even as he dabbed at a gash with isopropyl. "You built one ballista. How long until we can build another?"

Mousse scoffed. " 'How long? ' you say? We brought the parts with us from the village. We spent a day solid putting it together, and that was with full manpower. You're asking warriors to do the jobs of skilled craftsmen."

Ryōga yanked him by the collar. "I'm not interested in your excuses! How long until we can go back in and find Akane-san?"

"Days," said Mousse. "We'd have better luck going back to the village. Knowing the Council, they might have another siege engine prepared."

"Why didn't you bring another? Didn't you think of that?"

"Oh, by all means, next time carry an extra for us on your back, why don't you!"

"How about we get our heads on straight?" said Ukyō. "Let's quit arguing and come up with a plan!"

"Have no plan." Shampoo taped a twig to her forefinger, making an improvised splint. "Sorcerers destroy ballista. Can no go back through ki illusion."

"So make a new plan," said Ukyō.

Shampoo eyed a couple of her men. With some words in Chinese, she grabbed their attention, and the pair trotted off, abandoning their duties in triage.

"What was that for?" asked Ukyō.

"Must report back to Council," said Shampoo. "As Mousse say, get new ballista if possible."

"And until then?"

"We wait."

"We wait?"

"Yes. Wait."

Ukyō blinked. "You … just want to sit here and wait?"

"Is not what Shampoo say? Spatulas make spatula girl hard of hearing?"

"We still have ropes," said Ukyō. "Let's work our way around and string five or six of us together."

"No Amazon make run through illusion safe before. No Amazon even come back before."

"So we've made history. I could stand to make a little more."

Ryōga rose. "And I _won't_ stand to leave Akane-san in those Sorcerers' hands for any longer than she has to. As soon as we're able, we should make another try at getting inside!"

Shampoo scoured her pockets. "People who go in illusion get lost, always. Stay too long. Sorcerers know. Ryōga think we get lucky next time? Think Sorcerers won't finish us off?"

"You make it sound like your people never fought these Sorcerers," said Ukyō. "How did you fight them in that war of yours?"

Shampoo glared. "With great numbers. At Battle of Waterfall, one hundred Sorcerers fought off a thousand of our best warriors."

_Ten against one._ Ukyō shuddered. _They lost with an advantage of ten to one…_

And this camp, with the dead and wounded scattered across it, must've totaled less than twenty able-bodied warriors. Eight Sorcerers ravaged the Amazons when they could field twice what they had left. Eight versus forty. Eight versus twenty. Either way, the math boded ill for the Amazons, for Ranma.

"We no know if Ranma even inside bubble at all." With that, Shampoo left, making for her tent.

Ukyō looked to the woods, as if to see directly the springs that lay behind the Maze.

_No,_ she thought. _This doesn't make sense._

She capped off the bottle of rubbing alcohol and marched up the slope, following Shampoo.

"I wouldn't," said Mousse, blocking the path.

"Why not?"

"Shampoo's invoked the last right," he said. "Every one of our people respects that. Challenge her, and we're obligated to come to her defense." He met her gaze. "Including me."

"Think about what's going on here for a second, Mousse," she said. "Shampoo's hanging back because of what? Because she doesn't think Ranma's in that bubble? Does that make sense to you?"

He grimaced. "No…"

"No, because if there's even a slight chance he's there after all, Shampoo would tear up everything in her path, wouldn't she?"

"She would…"

"And Cologne _still is_ in there somewhere, isn't she?"

"Just what are you implying, Kuonji? If you have something to say, say it. I won't stand for this insinuation you're making about Shampoo, whatever it is, so spit it out."

"Mousse." Shampoo rose, trotting down the path. "Leave us."

"But Shampoo, I won't let your honor be assaulted this way!"

She touched his shoulder. "Leave Ukyō to me," she said. "Now."

Mousse bowed once in deference and wisely backed off, letting the girls settle their business on their own.

Ukyō pulled her spatula off her back and planted the weapon in the ground. "Well?" she said. "I'm waiting."

"Shampoo have no need to explain self to you," said the Amazon. "Shampoo in charge here, not Ukyō."

"Please. We spent hardly five minutes trying to think this through. Why are you so insistent on hanging back?"

Shampoo's eyes drifted off Ukyō, searching the fields of the dead and wounded below.

"What else would Ukyō do?" she said. "Is like Mousse say. Shampoo invoke last right. Everyone who come with Shampoo know what might happen, but still…" She sighed. "Shampoo bear no less responsibility for them, for what defeat we take here, for the ashes we bring back instead of men."

_Wow. I never even considered that Shampoo might take this so hard. Here I am talking about how we should get up and go in again without missing a beat. Here I am, not even waiting for the dead to be remembered and buried._

Even so, Ukyō shook off her guilt for a moment. Shampoo was right to think of her people, to grieve in her own way and feel the sting of defeat as her men did, but there was a balance to be struck here—a balance between mourning the dead and looking after the living who remained.

Ukyō stepped into Shampoo's line of sight, blocking the view of the triage taking place in the main camp. "I know it must be tough," she said. "You're leading your people; you _should_ feel it when there's loss. I won't deny that. But there are still people inside that bubble counting on us. Even if he's not in there, think about Ranchan."

Shampoo nodded, her eyes distant but steadying.

"Think of your great-grandmother."

Shampoo made a fist, strength returning to her grip.

"Think of Akane-chan."

A twitch.

"We owe something to each of them," said Ukyō. "Don't we?"

An icy gaze connected Ukyō and Shampoo. "No. Shampoo owe Akane nothing. Even though she save Ranma from Saffron, Shampoo owe her nothing! We stand defeated. Let Ranma and Akane be together in Sorcerer hell. Shampoo care not!" She stormed back up the path, but Ukyō was right on her heels.

"So that's what this is about. You don't care about these people who serve you."

Heavy footsteps left deep prints in the dirt.

"Answer me!" said Ukyō. "You're not even going to deny it, are you? You took every chance you had to kill her, to let her die so you could steal Ranchan away. You couldn't kill her yourself, so you'll do the next best thing? Strand her to die and give up on Ranma, too? Is this really how low you'll stoop so you don't have to face it—risking Ranma, risking your family?"

Shampoo untied her clubs from her belt. She held the shafts lightly and let the handles slip to the end: a position of maximum leverage, of lethal force.

"You know nothing of my family," she said. "You know nothing of my people. You only think about Akane. Do you think about people who fight along with you? They not blood, but they family. Shampoo risk them, too. Everyone who come, Shampoo gladly risk. For Ranma, for Great-grandmother, many time over! But for Akane?" She clenched the club handles, shaking. "No," she said. "Not for Akane. Shampoo no inflict this on her people again, not for Akane!"

"You hate her that much?" said Ukyō.

Shampoo bowed her head. "Is not about hate. There no honor in get lost among illusions, in dying without even get close."

She was right: it wasn't about hate. It was about helplessness, about futility: the futility of fighting Sorcerers who could level forests with the wave of a hand, of wandering in mazes without walls. Whatever resentment she held toward Akane, Shampoo's reaction was based on something worse—that nothing she could do would win Ranma for herself, that her love would be denied. She feared it.

And so did Ukyō, who wandered back to the main encampment, walking among the wounded and the ashes of the dead.

_If we do find Ranchan, if we come back without Akane-chan, he can't hold it against me, can he? Shampoo's the one in charge here. That makes her responsible, not me. I did my best._

And he'd forgive her for that, wouldn't he? When she broke down with guilt in front of him, trying to share his grief and anguish, he'd reach out to her, caress her cheek…

It would be so easy. And the warmth from his skin, the need in his eyes—they'd make everything right.

Ukyō wouldn't regret it at all.

"Gods help me," she muttered, making a fist. "Mousse! Ryōga!"

"What now, Kuonji?" Mousse capped off a canteen, dabbing his mouth dry with the sleeve of his shirt. "Are you done accosting my Shampoo?"

Ukyō rolled her eyes. "Your utter devotion is a little overdone, I think. Where's Ryōga?"

He blinked. "Come to think of it…"

"What, did he get lost again?"

Mousse paled. "I don't think so."

Past Ukyō, a knot held a rope to a tree, and the free end of cord lay limp, trailing into the forest.

#

All his life, he'd been lost. It ran in his family—both his father's and mother's lines—but he never claimed to suffer for it. His gift only drove him to travel the world, and indeed, he'd seen many of the monuments to human civilization in his short time on this earth: the grand Eiffel Tower of downtown Moscow, the Statue of Liberty outside Rio de Janeiro. Few others were so fortunate to see the world as he did, even if he did bear the curse of not knowing exactly where he was, or where he was going, at any given moment.

"Perhaps we could call your very existence uncertain?"

Once, while traveling in Massachusetts, he met a physicist, a man bound to a wheelchair who let computers speak for him. Apparently, Ryōga's sense of direction was a matter of scientific interest.

"You might be surprised to think so," said the professor, "but I've found that person has his own unique set of perspectives, that like different observers in relativity, we often disagree on the nature of what _should_ be the same thing. I would give much to see the world through another person's eyes, in the context of their thoughts and perceptions."

Ryōga distinctly remembered blinking at this remark.

"Then again," said the professor, "I'd also like to play poker with Einstein and Newton on the Starship _Enterprise_, but that too would be difficult, would it not?"

Such a pity his sense of direction wouldn't permit him to stay there, among the vaunted institutions of the university outside of Boston.

Cambridge _was_ just outside Boston, wasn't it?

No matter. Perhaps it was compulsion to him, a compulsion Professor Hawking wouldn't understand without seeing through his eyes, but Ryōga couldn't bear to stay in one place for very long. If anything about his senses could be called a curse, that would qualify over any other. The world was always clutter and confusion. It was as if everyone else saw the world through a spyglass, but he'd been given a kaleidoscope instead. Sure, it made the world interesting and colorful, but that didn't help that sometimes, he wanted to see the world clearly, for what it was, for what others saw it to be.

"Only once in my life have I even thought I saw clearly," his father told him once. "It was in the States, I think. I was hiking on the Colorado Plateau, and I tried to make for a river that should've been nearby. I wandered through the forest, and suddenly, I was in this place where I could see. It was like someone had taken a set of blinders off me. I knew my way around! I knew the difference between inside and out, left and right. I went inside, and there were people waiting to greet me. They didn't understand what I was saying, but I could tell they were angry. They wouldn't let me leave until I taught them enough Japanese for us to understand each other, for me to explain how I wandered there. Strange people they were. They said it was China, but I'm sure it was somewhere in the Rocky Mountains…"

This, like many of his father's stories, Ryōga took in with fascination, for only a few days out of the year did members of the Hibiki family find each other. But, more than seeing the pyramids in Sydney or the Coliseum in Paris, Ryōga hoped to see that place his father spoke of, an environment, however small, where the world's puzzles and mysteries gave way to perfect clarity. Now more than ever, with Akane trapped on the other side of the Maze, he needed to know where he was going and how to get there.

Was this the place what his father spoke of?

Ryōga guided the tether rope along the forest floor, pulling it over thick roots. He knew what he saw: tree trunks, dirt, weeds, rocks. Of course the rope led the way back to camp, and while the sights around him seemed ordinary enough, would he know with certainty he could make it there and back without the rope?

He steeled himself. _Akane-san must be counting on us,_ he thought. _She could be cursed or hurt or __worse. Shampoo might not want to find her, but I have to try._

"I know it must be a sacrifice for you," she'd said. "To leave Akari."

_No, Akane-san, the sacrifice is for me not to tell you how _I_ feel. The sacrifice is to hear you so easily say how you love Ranma—that bastard Ranma—and not me! I care for Akari-chan, but it's you I love! You and only you, yet I can't bring myself to say it._

And so, where words failed Hibiki Ryōga, actions would speak instead. His father, who met the Sorcerers, told him this would be a place he could find his way in.

_I have faith in my father. In Father and Akane-san, I will believe._

He undid the bandana on his head, held it taut so the edge would cut, and sliced the rope clean.

#

Back in the camp…

"He must be crazy!"

A weak and bandaged Konatsu tried to calm Ukyō down. "I'm sure Ryōga-sama knows what he's doing."

"My ass he knows what he's doing!" Ukyō eyed the severed end of the rope, standing amidst the coils that the Amazons had pulled back through the forest. "He did this on purpose, yeah, but he's an idiot! An _idiot_!"

Ryōga emerged from the illusion unamused. "I'm not an idiot."

Ukyō and Konatsu stared in surprise. Even Shampoo, up the hill, eyed the spectacle with interest.

But Mousse was first to regain his wits. "So, you made it back alive," he said. "Impressive, but did you think maybe you'd bring _the entire Sorcerer Guard_ upon us to finish the job?"

"I left to prove a point," said Ryōga, "and I did. I've navigated the Sorcerers' illusion. I've been back to Jusenkyō."

Mousse scoffed. "The king of the lost finds his way for a change? What proof do we have you can make it through?"

"This." Ryōga opened his palm, and between his thumb and forefinger, a string of quartz beads dangled in a closed loop.

Shampoo trotted down the path, approaching him, and Ryōga eased the choker of silence into her hand.

"I can lead us through the illusion," said Ryōga. "You have no need to wait for another ballista from the village. If Shampoo won't approve of a mission to Jusenkyō, I'll go alone. I won't leave Akane-san behind any longer than I must." s All eyes turned to Shampoo, who sat transfixed, gazing into the beads, watching the sunlight glitter off the pink and red crystal.

"Shampoo." Ukyō stepped forward, demanding her attention. "I know you don't care for Akane-chan. I know you're worried about the safety of your people and how their lives—how their deaths—reflect on you. If I were in charge of so many, I think I be worried, too, but everyone here is willing to fight. You and I are for Ranchan. Ryōga here for Akane-chan. All of them for your village or whatever it is. Ranchan's still out there. Cologne's still out there, and now we have a way in. Let's come up with a plan. Even if it's wrong, even if it's not smart and we still have a lot to lose, I think we owe it to them—to ourselves—not to sit back and wait. Let's show those damned Sorcerers we're not easy. We can save Ranma."

She took Shampoo by the hand, grasping the string of beads as well.

"_You_ can save Ranma."

Shampoo nodded, taking the choker back. With it firmly in her grip, the fire came back in her eyes: the will to fight, the resolve to face battle and win, to forget past failures when it came to the next day.

"All right," she said. "Sorcerer forget Amazon. Sorcerer not know why we here, but now we make Sorcerer remember us. We make Sorcerer never forget."

* * *

**Next:** Henna has carried out her mission for Sindoor with fanatical dedication. With new human test subjects to try mixed curse waters on, only Ranma can stop the Sorcerer Priest from carrying out her mad research … if he can muster enough strength to break free and end her madness once and for all. **The final morning at Jusenkyō begins with "Monsters and Demons" Part VI - "To Fight the Demons That Haunt Us" - Coming July 16, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	25. Monsters VI: Demons That Haunt Us

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** As the second night of the flood wanes, something stirs at the edge of the spring ground. Elsewhere, the Sorcerer priest Henna continues her experiments in mixed curses on human test subjects, with Ranma helpless, trapped behind bars, forced to watch.

* * *

**To Fight the Demons That Haunt Us**

_Chapter Four, Act Six_

Night. Or morning. It's not precisely clear when night becomes morning. Is it the first moment a touch of sunlight chases away pitch black? Is it earlier? Later?

To Kohl in his female body, the distinction was of little comfort. One thing he disliked about this Guide's house—the lighting in it was unnatural, far too yellow and white. A torch's flame was warmer. You feel its heat, and the reddish hues are softer on the eyes. It's easier to go from fire to night, but these bulbous filaments the outisders used—they stung his eyes, on or off. To pull a string and have light blanket a room was little less than stunning.

The channelers didn't seem to mind. Then again, they did their work with their eyes closed.

Coming up a wooden ladder, Kohl crouched down, avoiding a crossbeam. This attic space of the Guide's house was cozy, secluded. A fitting place to protect the channelers and have them do their work in peace. "Channeler, speak to me," he said. "Are there intruders in the Maze?"

Of the six who hummed there, only one opened his eyes. Breaking the rhythmic meditation, the lead channeler spoke. Hushed and quiet were his words, hard to hear above the other's hums.

"Yes," said the leader. "The intruders are few. Wild beasts and animals. Their ki patterns are strange."

"I'm not interested in beasts," said Kohl. "Tell me: have the Riverfolk breached the Maze again?"

"If they have, it has been only one or a few. Not many."

"Have they or haven't they?"

The channeler glared. "When you swallow a bean, do you feel it at all times on the way down? Or do you only taste it and forget as it falls to your stomach?"

Kohl huffed. "When I swallow a bean, I know it must come out the other end."

The channeler closed his eyes and hummed, reinforcing the root of the chord.

_As I thought. No use at all._ Kohl backed himself down a ladder, returning to the upper floor of the abode. There, his deputy awaited his orders.

"Send a patrol," said Kohl. "If the Riverfolk have discovered some other way to breach the Maze, I want to know when they're here. Get the position from the channeler; see if he knows whether the bean's in his throat or somewhere lower."

The deputy blinked.

"Never mind," said Kohl. "Is there something else?"

"The prisoner requests your presence."

"The prisoner is entitled to nothing but food and water."

"She was insistent."

Down the hall, a guard shuffled past, attended by two others. He doubled over at the waist, cradling his crotch.

"So I see," said Kohl. "Very well."

He rounded the corner to a sparse, white room. A bare incandescent bulb screwed into the ceiling and shined yellow light on four walls. Two guards stood at the doorway, their battle staves held upright and tall. Kohl eyed the prisoner, who sat with her back to the far corner.

"Is there an issue here?" he asked. "Have your needs been neglected?"

"No," said Akane. "I've been fed well enough. Your water smells funny, though."

"You can't go without water forever," said Kohl.

"I'll be fine for now, fine enough until you let me go."

"Why should we do that?"

"Because Ranma's going to come," said Akane. "When he finds out about this, he'll make each and every one of you sorry. You'll see."

"Tell me of the Riverfolk," said Kohl, stepping forward. "The people you call _Amazons_. Why are our movements their concern? Why do you travel with them?"

"Can't you go ask Kohl? I already told him more than I should've."

Kohl touched a hand to his girl form's long, chestnut hair. "I know what he knows. I wish to know more."

Akane looked away.

"We can make this unpleasant if you resist."

"I came here for Ranma," said Akane. "That's all."

"And the Riverfolk?"

Akane was silent.

"So be it." Kohl yanked her up by the wrist.

And Akane grabbed his arm. She planted her back foot and spun!

BAM! Concrete blocks crumbled. Kohl's body bashed a meter-wide hole in the wall. Dust scattered. Rebar twisted and bent. The Sorcerer Guard rushed to their captain's aid, but Kohl shrugged off the blow, wiping the fine white powder from his tunic. "Stay at your posts," he said. "I'm fine."

"What?" said Akane. "I'm not even worth restraining, is that it?"

"Guards." Kohl motioned to them. "Subdue her."

The guards charged. Staves twirled and thrust at Akane, whipping at her clothes as they passed.

Akane dodged. A sweeping kick knocked a guard off his feet. Akane jabbed at the other, but the Sorcerer shuffled back, out of reach. The staff had much more range than she did. It could get at her where she couldn't attack in return.

The guard slid his top hand high on the staff and swung, left to right.

CRACK! The iron end-weight smashed Akane's temple, ringing her skull like a bell. The sound echoed through the quiet, pre-morning halls. She staggered, pacified.

"Further resistance will be punished," said Kohl, "as you have been punished now."

Akane stumbled to a wall, bracing herself as she held her free hand to the wound. As blood seeped between her fingers, she glared daggers at Wuya.

"I'm not telling you a damn thing," she said. "No matter what you do to me."

'You say that now, but—"

Drip. A small dot of fluid splashed on the concrete floor.

Drip drip. Not the bright red blood from Akane's head wound. No, this liquid was clearer.

From Akane's hard, open eyes, tears streamed down her face. Her gaze betrayed no weakness, no fear, yet tears came anyway.

"We shall see," finished Kohl. "We shall see."

But rather than take out further vengeance against Akane, he quickly made his exit, retiring to the Guide's tea room, content to watch the springs as dawn approached.

_Strange,_ he thought. _That Ranma—she never cried._

He looked past his reflection in the glass, sipping tea by the window alone.

#

Meanwhile, among the tunnels of Mount Kensei…

"You're sick; do you know that?" Ranma gripped the bars of his prison tightly, as if to squeeze the iron into the cracks between his fingers. "You're sick, Henna. Totally si—" He coughed, wincing. His throat ached and spasmed. Even to talk at a whisper taxed him.

"I assure you, I think clearly," said the priest, stirring water in her cauldron. "Tell me, do you know why the Sorcerer Guard exists?"

Ranma shook the bars, but all he felt was his body moving, not the metal. Was he already too parched for water to break out? It'd only been two days, right? Not three or five or ten?

Who could say anymore.

"Come now," said Henna. "Surely you have some sort of inkling."

"Who knows? To be an unsightly pimple on my otherwise shapely ass?"

Henna laughed. "Not quite. The Guard means to protect the people, you see."

"From the Amazons?"

"No. The channelers protect us from outsiders." She met Ranma's gaze. "The Guard protect the people from themselves."

"You mean like police."

Henna laughed again.

"I don't see what's so funny." Ranma bashed his fist on the bars.

A rod bent at a shallow angle.

"When we are born, the nursemaids take us in to live with them and them alone." Ladle in hand, Henna spooned water from the cauldron into a clay bowl. "We stay there a moon—at least that much for some, longer for others—to prove we're fit to live. That is the only time the people are meant to spend in the bodies they were born with. After that, the nursemaids immerse us in the sacred spring."

"I know all this," said Ranma. "I saw what you sick freaks do to your children. You turn them into animals."

"With respect, Saotome Ranma, I don't think you truly understand who and what we are." Henna set the bowl aside, and over a low flame, she heated water in a pot, allowing the steam to rise from it. "The people wield ki magic, but they are insulated from its dangers so long as they stay in bodies that are 'cursed,' as you call it. As everyone calls it but we do."

"So they're people when they're cursed and people when they're born?" said Ranma. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Oh? You're a strange one to say such a thing, Saotome Ranma. Have you not looked upon yourself lately?"

"Looked upon myself? What are you talking about?" He felt down the front of his shirt. "What do you—"

And touched upon a girl's breast.

"Our sacred spring is not like any of the ones here," said Henna, adding more water to the boiling pot. "The Lady told me once that no two springs are identical, but I can't be certain. Whatever the mechanics of it, we live our lives looking like you, like _humans_, like outsiders, but we are none of those things. These are _not_ the bodies we were born with. Humans are sensitive to the flows of ki, but I…" Her expression darkened. Her hand went to her belt, just above the thigh. "I have only a flow I was never meant to have."

Ranma shuddered.

"Anyone who dislikes the form the spring gave them is hunted, but the Sorcerer Guard…" She scoffed. "They are hypocrites. They use the bodies they pretend to loathe. Even the Lady knows it. That is why she sent me here. Too long have we relied on the bodies we were born with; even I am not immune. We must have some other way. So says the Lady, but that's not why I pursue this work."

She took the pot of hot water and carried it to a cell, a prison not unlike Ranma's own. Inside, she released a creature—a turtle with the spikes of a porcupine on its shell—and poured.

A crazed shriek filled the room, but no longer was it the coarse, inhuman cries of a monster. Nay, this was a person, dripping and unclothed, who bashed on the bars with his bare hands.

"This too is one of the Riverfolk," said Henna. "I believe you've already become acquainted with the other?"

The shiny bird with fish scales pecked at its wooden cage, screeching.

"Perhaps they wish to be human, but this I cannot allow. I have too much use for both of them."

"What are you doing?" Ranma crept against the bars. "Tell me! What are you going to do, Henna?"

"I am a priest and a scientist. You should understand: I will be nothing if not methodical. There are hundreds—nay, _thousands—_of distinct springs, and with that millions upon millions of combinations."

"Combinations of what?"

Henna dipped her ladle in the cauldron. "Why, curses of course."

Ranma paled. "You're joking!"

"No," said Henna. "You're mistaken." With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the water at the male Amazon's cell.

Ranma pressed his head against the bars his cage, trying to see what the resulting horror was, but the recessed cell walls gave him no view of what Henna had done to the Amazon.

BANG! At least, it didn't until something with claws slashed at the Amazon's iron bars, bending them outward.

"Interesting," said Henna. "This would be a most exquisite form, worthy of someone of rank. Let me see, one part Drowned Bear water, one part Drowned Hawk, two parts Drowned Viper—oh, here we are." Henna uncovered a scroll with Chinese characters on it. "Forgive me, I've already written this down. Let us note the result then, shall we? A creature about five barrels high? Impressive strength? Good, that's very good. Let's move on then."

" 'Move on'?" said Ranma. "What the hell do you mean, 'move on'?"

Henna dipped her ladle in another cask of curse water. "The specimen is still useful for trying other combinations. Why should we stop now?" She moved to the male Amazon's cage once more and doused him in the new curse her ladle bore. Again and again she subjected the man to her horrors, an amalgam of curses so confused and terrible even Henna lost track.

"No, that was the butterfly, yes of course." She grinned. "You really should see this, Saotome Ranma. The wings are quite impressive."

Ranma lowered his shoulder and plowed into the cage bars.

"Come now, you must realize how weak you've become. It's a special blend we reserve for prisoners of great strength. You can't hope to escape that way."

A long, hairy insect leg kicked through the gaps in the male Amazon's cage.

"He, however, stands much more of a chance with that form." Pensive, Henna left her ladle on the floor, reaching instead for a knife and a bamboo pole.

"What the hell is that?" said Ranma.

"You're acquainted with our paralytics, yes?" said Henna. "It's quite effective, even more so when you change the balance of toxins ever-so-slightly. At that point, it becomes quite the lethal agent."

"Oh, come on! You can't be serious!"

Henna tied the dagger to the tip of the hollow pole. She doused the blade in oily poison and, with this improvised weapon for protection, inched toward the Amazon's cage.

"Stop this, Henna."

The creature in the cell hollered and shrieked. Henna darted in, bringing her spear to bear, but claws and legs shot out after her, flailing, shoving her back.

"Dammit!" said Ranma. "I said stop!"

KA-EEK!

The beast thrashed about its cage, but Henna thrust into it, piercing its flesh with cold, meticulous precision.

"Do you not see?" she said, keeping her eyes on the creature—the person—she was killing. "With each curse added, the threat the specimen poses only increases. Eventually, it must be put down and the process begun anew."

Thrust. The male Amazon went quiet. Henna dropped the spear on the floor; it was no longer needed.

And no one but Henna would witness the man's dying breath.

Ranma froze, aghast, horrified. "You're a crazy bitch, Henna."

She glared. "Pardon?"

"If Shampoo and her people don't come in here and kill you, I will! You're a crazy fucking bitch!"

"I am not." Sidestepping the stone lab table, Henna snatched up the ladle and strode toward Ranma's cage, looking him in the eye. "I will not be tempted by this body anymore, you see? I may look human to you, but I am not! I'm _wrong_! And if the Lady demands I live in a cursed body, I won't let it be human!" She grabbed at her own chest. "I'd rather live my life a monstrosity than carry the weight of these with me forever! I will not be denied! Not by you, not by the Lady." She dangled the ladle over the bars. "Perhaps _you_ would prefer to be my experiment?"

Ranma thrust his arm through the gap, clawing at Henna, but the Sorcerer Priest pulled back, stepping out of reach.

"No, it is not your time," she said. "The Lady has use for you." She looked away…

…and eyed the birdcage instead.

"Don't you dare, Henna!"

"The words of a toothless horse don't frighten me." She opened the door to the birdcage, releasing the female Amazon's cursed form into the second cell.

Ranma punched at the iron bars of his own prison, but the metal rang dully, and so did his knuckle. Numb he was. Numb and hot because his body wouldn't sweat. His eyes recessed into his skull. Colors bled from the world around him, painting the lab in shaded monochrome.

_Toothless._

Like television static, the sight before his eyes flickered, a dizzying mess of white and black.

_Can't do anything like this._

His heart thumped in his chest, frantic, racing, for it labored pump iron sludge through his veins.

_Too weak, too thirsty._

He put a hand to his chest and felt the lump of fatty flesh that, just like with Henna, weighed him down.

_Still a girl._

The snowed out remnants of the room faded to black, but in its place, a pair of eyes stared from the darkness. Clear, steady, brown eyes on a backdrop of dark hair. A girl in uniform she was, with a green skirt and white sleeves.

_Sorry, Akane. I guess I'm always just bothering you._

Her gaze was cold, frigid. Withering. This icy expression did not befit her, not when the fire of her anger could be so exciting, when her tenderness could be so warm. That was the problem. Akane was like an unbridled flame, pleasant to be around when tended to, like a campfire, but one loose ember could set a whole forest ablaze.

Yet Ranma saw not an Akane possessed by bright, stunning fury. This Akane was cold to him. She pierced him with her gaze.

This was the Akane who glared at him under storm clouds, unflinching as the first drop of cold rain fell.

"_You are not a man, Ranma!"_

"No!"

CREAK, SNAP! Iron bars crunched in his hands, pulling from their holes in the ceiling and floor. The metal warped and deformed like putty in his fists.

_I did it? I'm free? _ He looked over the wreckage of the cell. _I'm strong again? _

He dropped the bars, clenching his fists. There was a weakness still in him, to be sure. The ill effects of dehydration plagued him, but for a few short minutes, he could ignore the symptoms. His heart raced, but all he needed was one good punch. One good punch to take out the freak who stood before him. Henna, the Sorcerer Priest.

Henna, the murderer.

There was one dead in the lab already, with another on deck, waiting to be deformed and slaughtered. And somewhere far away (so Ranma hoped), there was a girl waiting for him, counting the days until he was a man again.

Only one dared stand in his path.

"Henna."

Though shock may have possessed the Sorcerer Priest, she quickly dispelled it. She cast aside her ladle, wielding instead the bloody bamboo spear.

But Ranma watched her charge in slow-motion. A chill coursed through the room. He touched just his fingertip to the air, and a fragile string of frost connected them—jailer and escapee.

The only thing colder was Ranma's gaze.

"Goodbye."

THWAP!

Henna lurched. A column of ice bored through her gut, stopping her mid-step.

THWAP-THWAP!

A pair more pinned her to the far wall, shattering precious clay-ware, but Henna eyed the thick pillars of ice with bewilderment.

"How can this be?" she said. "The magic—it should be weaker…"

For the first time since Ranma set foot in the cursed menagerie, the room was silent, but what noise the beasts suppressed was replaced instead with the crazed beating of Ranma's heart. It pounded and thumped in his chest; pulsing blood rang through his ears. Cold air from the ice spikes swirled against the heat of many bodies, all crammed in this lab together.

Ranma looked to the side, glimpsing the male Amazon's cell.

He looked to the front, where Henna's body sagged against the support of three ice beams.

And the laboratory was silent, save for the splashing of Ranma's stomach acid on stone floor.

#

The good thing about ice, though, was that he trusted it not be cursed—at least, not cursed enough to matter. Not to say he was stupid enough to trust it implicitly, but Ranma hoped, _prayed_, that this water would be safe—both for him and his Amazon companion.

From the very spikes that slew Henna, Ranma hacked off chunks of ice and melted them in Henna's unused pottery. He tested it carefully: he doused a selection of animals in boiled water and then cold again, and seeing none of them exhibit new cursed forms, he could be sure it was safe. He guzzled cold water in liters at a time, as if the stuff would pump raw strength back into him, and sure enough, his muscles felt springy after just the first gulp.

But he had more need for this water than his own thirst. With another batch of boiled water, he doused himself, growing taller and broader as soon as the first drop hit.

_Heh. It's good to be me again._

He ripped out the bars to the female Amazon's cell, freeing the colorful bird with shiny fish scales.

"You ready?" he asked the bird.

The creature blinked, sitting as if to guard a nest of its chicks.

"All right then." He tilted the pot and poured.

And before he could turn away, a mass of dripping, naked flesh embraced him, sobbing into his shirt.

"Oi, oi!" He dropped the pot, falling to his back. _Dear gods,_ he thought. _What is it with naked girls trying to rub themselves all over me? _ Reluctantly, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay; you're okay now. It's all right."

The Amazon shivered, pulling away. She felt her own face, as if to check she were really human after all.

"Here." Ranma took off his shirt, wrapping the poor girl in it. Her long, braided ponytail dangled past the shirt's seam, but it would do for now.

The female Amazon rose, clutching the cloth to her skin, and wandered to the male Amazon's cell. Shaking, she beat her fist against the bars.

"He was a friend of yours, wasn't he?"

She met Ranma's gaze, but her expression was blank.

"You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you."

She pointed at him and pressed her finger to his sternum. "Ranma."

"Yeah, I'm Ranma. Doesn't that figure; all the damn Sorcerers speak Japanese, but you don't know a word."

"Ranma." The female Amazon poked him again, seemingly content with this.

"Well fine." Ranma poked back with the same motion. "Who are you?"

She blinked for a moment but soon caught on. "Marula."

"Okay, Marula, then. You had my photo, right?" He traced in the air an outline of the snapshots. "Of me and Shampoo?"

"Shampoo!"

Ranma sighed. "Oh boy."

Marula put both hands in front of her chest, making a cupping gesture.

"Well, yeah, her breasts are pretty huge, but—" Ranma slapped himself. "This ain't no time to be talking about breasts. Let's see, uh, who else is with you?"

Marula blinked.

"Dammit, the Sorcerers are coming at dawn, and I need to tell someone! Who else is with you?" He poked himself. "Ranma." He poked her. "Marula." He poked at air. "Shampoo. Who else? Who's at the hole I found you guys at?"

Marula put her hand low to the ground, and with the other, she curled her fingers, placing the gap over her eye.

"Short, with beady eyes?" Ranma grinned. "I never thought I'd be so glad to see the old bat." He grabbed her wrist. "Come on; let's go!"

But Marula yanked it right back.

"Hey, come on, I don't have time for this!"

She stole the torches from the wall, collecting them in one hand, and circled around to the male Amazon's cell.

"What are you doing?"

Marula guided each torch through the bars, and with each club of flame added, the body of the male Amazon burned.

_Of course; I'm stupid. It's a ritual for the dead._

Marula marched to the doorway, her footing uneasy on legs she'd grown unaccustomed to, but Ranma stayed behind. Before the pyre for the male Amazon, Ranma stood by the bars, letting the smoke and flames whip across his face.

_Two._

He glanced aside. The last of the ice columns melted away, and Henna's corpse fell to the floor, dripping in a puddle of cold water.

_Three._

Three dead rabbits, tied to a string, and like the carcasses he so casually discarded in the tunnels of Jusendō, he left the bodies of the dead behind him.

Of one he killed through weakness.

Of another he killed through rage.

And a third, he imagined, might be lying in a crib on Mount Phoenix, waiting for the Sorcerers to come.

The dead must inevitably be left behind.

His penance at the graves of his victims done, Ranma set off with Marula, into the tunnels. With Henna's lamp they lit the way, heading upward, toward the surface, and Ranma gladly followed Marula's lead.

"Who else is with you?" he asked her. "You, me, Shampoo, Cologne. Who else? Kunō, maybe? That idiot would chase me to hell and back, you know."

Turning over the lamp, Marula gestured again as they walked. This time, she traced out a long weapon with a broad striking surface and touched a hand to her own ponytail.

"Ukyō?"

Marula nodded.

"So Ucchan's here, huh? That's good. I could really go for an okonomiyaki or three about now—when we get out of here, anyway."

Marula went back to her pantomiming.

"Oh, there's more?"

She placed a flat hand at eye-level.

"Shorter than you."

She pressed both hands hard against her chest.

"Little smaller, huh?"

She touched her hands to her hips and held them out, broadening the space between them.

"She's a little wide in the—" Ranma stopped. "Akane?"

Marula nodded.

"Akane's here?"

She nodded again.

"Why?"

Not like Marula would know—or even understand his question. She moved on, taking the lamp away to find the path again.

"Dammit, I'm talking to you!" He dashed forward and spun to face her. "What the hell is she doing here?"

With one arm, she moved him aside, navigating the tunnels, and Ranma was left to contemplate his question in silence.

_Of course she's here,_ he thought. _She's as stubborn as ever, and I _told_ Kunō to go find her. Should've been someone else, anyone else! Ucchan's fine. She can hold her own. And Shampoo—I'd expect nothing less. But dammit! Why does Akane have to be here? That dumb tomboy's just going to get herself hurt._

They were higher now. Through cracks in the rocks, tiny beams of moonlight poked into the tunnels.

_She's going to be trapped here. When Wuya gets her reinforcements today, we're all going to be trapped here._

Sounds, movement. Marula snuffed out the lamp light, and in darkness, she and Ranma went back-to-back, prepared to fight off any foe.

"Oh!"

But instead of Sorcerers, Ranma and Marula met a group of friendlier faces.

"Well, son-in-law." Cologne, along with a dozen of the Amazon's best, greeted Ranma and Marula with the light of torches' flames. "I see you waste no opportunity to give your shirt to a pretty girl. Shampoo will be most upset to think you've taken advantage of another member of the tribe."

"Shirt? Advantage?" Ranma turned a bright shade of red, springing away from Marula. "Wait, wait, I ain't done nothing to her, honest!"

"I see. So you still save yourself for Shampoo then?"

"Now hold on a second…"

Cologne cackled. "Indeed. Perhaps we should discuss matters of marriage another time. It is good to see you well, Ranma, but I fear we must cut the pleasantries short. War brews between Sorcerer and Amazon, and the war, I think, goes badly."

"Maybe more than you think," said Ranma. "What time is it?"

"I fail to see how that's relevant," said Cologne.

"Trust me, it is. You guys got your hole to the surface around here? I've been cooped up in this mountain for days. I'd like to see the sun again."

And so, with the Amazons as escort, Ranma and company navigated the cursed tunnels, making their way to the surface. As the moon slipped below the high cliffs that surrounded the basin, Ranma looked upon the spring ground, whose waters shimmered in starlight.

"My gods," he said. "It's a disaster. It's all flooded again!"

"The waters have begun to recede," said Cologne, standing at his side, "but not quickly enough, I fear."

"No," said Ranma. "Not quickly enough." He met Cologne's gaze. "The Sorcerers have reinforcements coming."

"When?"

"Today, at dawn."

"Impossible," said Cologne. "It would take—"

"Two days, at least, to reach their village?" Ranma shook his head. "They can talk to each other, just using their heads. Their heads and this damn powder they put in a fire."

"Vision dust." Cologne shuddered. "My people used to use it, too."

"To make psychic phone calls?"

"For more … recreational purposes." She frowned. "You're certain of these plans?"

"I heard it myself."

"Then we must act quickly. The Sorcerers have left us alone for the time-being. I can only imagine they were content to regroup while their forces arrived to overwhelm us. We must strike at the source of the illusion before the Sorcerer Guard achieves full force."

"Illusion?" said Ranma. "You mean the maze thing they have, right? You're looking for the channelers, then."

"Channelers?" Cologne frowned. "I see. So it's people we're after. The Sorcerers use their own magic to shield themselves, and it would only make sense to retreat to that spot, even in this catastrophe."

"If they're not in the mountain, they're in the Guide's house," said Ranma. "Their captain's there. Count on the channelers being holed up inside, too."

"I see," said Cologne. "Then we must attack their stronghold. So be it."

"Elder!"

Cologne winced. "Have I not _told_ you not to call me _elder_?"

The lieutenant bowed profusely. "Forgive me, elder. There is movement to the east."

"Movement? What movement?"

The lieutenant offered a pair of spyglasses, one for Ranma, one for Cologne. Far in the distance, past the tree line, fireballs engulfed the forest, burning brightly in the murky dawn.

"Shampoo," said Cologne, folding up the spyglass. "Come, Son-in-law, we must hurry. My blood and your beloved are both in danger."

* * *

**Next:** Shampoo and Cologne's forces converge on the Guide's house, seeking to disable the channelers and make a break for the outside en masse, but with Sorcerer reinforcements on the horizon, can they complete their attack before the Maze around Jusenkyō is too large to escape? **The freedom of Ranma, Akane, and the Amazon army rest on the outcome of the colossal finale to "Monsters and Demons" - "To Slay the Monsters within Our Souls" - Coming July 23, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	26. Monsters VII: Monsters within Our Souls

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** The Sorcerers' reinforcements lie on the horizon. Shampoo's forces have invaded the springs. The time to strike at the mountain is nigh, and it's time for Ranma to seize the day.

**Note:** to correct a continuity error, the previous chapter has been edited to reflect that the Sorcerer reinforcements were meant to arrive at dawn.

* * *

**To Slay the Monsters within Our Souls**

_Chapter Four Finale_

"Incoming!"

KA-BLAM! A ball of fire mushroomed skyward, lighting up the gray mists of pre-dawn.

"Hold your ground!" By the edge of the tree line, in sight of the mountain above Jusendō, Mousse hammered a wooden stake into the soft earth. A taut rope led the way back through the Maze, along which the Amazon forces charged for the spring ground. "There's only two of them!" he said. "Archers, take them down!"

The archers fired a split volley, half low, on a direct line to their Sorcerer foes; and half high, arcing toward the stars.

Sure enough, what the Sorcerers couldn't see hurt them dearly. Flat panels of ice protected them from the direct salvo, but the high, looping shots fell in behind, bombarding them in a rain of iron arrowheads.

The Sorcerer patrol fell, and before the Amazons, only open, flooded grounds blocked the way to the mountain.

"We're clear!" Mousse yelled over his shoulder. "The path's open!"

Doubled over, Shampoo barreled past, lugging a ten-meter log on her back while Ryōga brought up the rear. Behind them, the Amazons swarmed the grounds, carrying boulders, tree trunks, even barrels of pure dirt, for though the flood waters of Jusenkyō were cursed, they were also shallow in most places, save for where a spring should be. Shallow enough to displace and cross, if one only had a few stepping stones to hop over.

Shampoo laid the first stone—or log, as chance would have it—and her army built upon the structure from there. They erected a line over the floodwaters, a clear path to the Sorcerers and their stronghold.

"All move quickly!" said Shampoo, leading the charge to the mountainside. "Let's go!"

The earth rumbled. From the cliffs above, the Sorcerer Guard watched them, and with ki magic they made the earth move, rocking the mountain like a massive clash of faults. The quake shook boulders loose, and muddy sludge careened down the slope.

"Scatter!" said Mousse, bringing up the rear. "Rock slide!"

But as the Amazons fanned out to escape the onslaught of nature and magic, more than just Sorcerers observed this battle. Through his spyglass, Ranma eyed the battle with increasing dread in his heart.

"We've got to do something," he told Cologne. "They're fighting uphill; they're going to get destroyed down there!"

"It's an opportunity," said Cologne, leaning on her walking stick. "Don't you see? The Sorcerers have made their base in the Guide's home. They lie between us and Shampoo's forces. So far they've ignored us. Now they will pay for that inattention." She drew a line in the dirt. "We'll strike them from behind and neutralize these channelers you spoke of. Shampoo herself has given us the perfect distraction."

"You'd let your own great-granddaughter be bait while you sneak in behind?"

"I have faith in Shampoo. Do you not have faith in Tendō?"

"So it's true then," said Ranma, folding up the spyglass. "Akane did come after all."

"You sound surprised."

"_Surprised_ ain't the word! What were you all thinking, letting her come back here again? It's a warzone out here!"

Cologne laughed. "As if we're Tendō's keepers. She chose to make this journey, Son-in-law. She knew the risks. I made them plain when I explained just who and what the Sorcerers are."

"You know these guys?"

"I see they give you no history lessons in Sorcerer captivity. Yes, I know them. What I don't know is why any of this has transpired."

"They want Saffron," said Ranma. "They want him to be their 'Sieve.' "

"A sieve, you say? I fail to see how an infant pyromaniac will help them filter water."

"It's too long a story." Ranma stepped up, to the edge of the trail, gazing past the Dragon Tap to the battle below. "I'm going down there. Go attack the channelers if you want. I won't be joining you."

"It's not a matter of wanting, Son-in-law! You said it yourself: the Sorcerers' reinforcements come at any hour! If we cannot crush them by force, we must make our retreat and gain our own reinforcements from my people. If you go down there, you'll be a target caught between the battle lines!"

"I don't care," said Ranma. "You know why I have to go down there."

Cologne nodded. "So I do."

"The channelers like to hum," he said. "And they'll try to disappear before your eyes, but they'll still be humming right in front of you."

"We will make our best stand," said Cologne.

"Good luck."

"And to you, Ranma."

Ranma put his foot over the side, and skidding friction between sole and earth slowed his descent. Cologne was smart. She understood him well, but even knowing his reasons for going, she couldn't feel them the way he did. She couldn't know them in her heart.

_Akane's here…_

Here, among the devastation: the flooded springs, the mountain's inhospitable slopes and the battlefield that pitted nature against man, lightning against bow, twister against spear…

Somewhere, in this cataclysmic purgatory was Akane.

_Dumb tomboy! You had it all wrong, old bat; she didn't know what she was doing! She never does! She jumps into other people's battles without thinking! _

That was the only explanation he could think of, the only one that made sense. Why else would she come to this place but to say he couldn't do it alone? That he needed her help?

_You're damn crazy, Akane. I'll have to shout some sense into you, when I find you._

BLAM! A boulder shattered, booming through the night like a thunder strike. Pebbles and jagged shards tore at Ranma's face, cutting like a shot from a sandblaster.

_I guess someone figured out I'm here. All right then, you asked for it._

Some two hundred meters below the guide's house, the Sorcerer Guard gathered at an overhang, sniping at the Amazons below with fire, water, wind, and hail, but it only took one to notice Ranma, who sped down the slope. It only took one to make his path a lethal minefield.

BLAM BLAM BLAM! Ranma ran through the shower of pebbles. The holes they cut in his shirt weren't important. The pain as they scraped and nibbled at his skin—that didn't matter. What mattered lay below them. What mattered were the dozen archers who fired blindly into the cool morning. What mattered were the Amazons who pulled themselves up the mountain by fleeting handholds and loose rock.

What mattered was Akane, for somewhere down below, she was doing her best to get herself killed like the foolish, headstrong girl she was.

_You guys think one of two of you is enough to stop me? Well, guess again. I fought off four of you just fine, and that was in a girl's body. That was when I didn't know your tricks._

He held out his fingers, straight and true, and flakes of ice grew off the fingertips.

_I can take all of you._

He spread his arms wide, and from his palms, twin sheets of ice protected him. Though boulders exploded in his path, Ranma wielded the ice sheets like shields, deflecting the debris before it touched him.

The Sorcerers abandoned the overhang. A more formidable foe approached in Ranma, and line up they would to face him.

_All right. Take this! _

The ground froze over, a film of ice putting the Sorcerers on slippery footing, but Ranma glided over the sheet. He leapt high and pounced!

WHAM! Shockwaves toppled the Sorcerers, and with fists solid, encased in blocks of ice, Ranma punched.

CRACK! A Sorcerer tumbled over the side, rolling limp over the rocky slopes.

"Well?" said Ranma. "Who's next?"

The Sorcerers charged at him, fighting ice with fire, but that too played into Ranma's hand. He could be the cool one while they provided heat and flame. With the magic he'd stolen from them, it only empowered an old favorite of his techniques. As the Sorcerers hacked and swatted at him, as they blasted him with an inferno, Ranma stayed cool and steady. He let the fires swirl around him, and when his enemies fell into step, he planted his feet for the deathblow.

"Hiryū Shōten Ha!"

And in the tornado that melded hot and cold, some of the Sorcerers fell to the earth, too dazed to continue. Those that didn't dodged the boulders that flew in the twister's winds. They peppered Ranma with beams of light and heat, but if they were trained in the art of fighting a fellow Sorcerer, of fighting someone like them, they didn't show it. Ranma touched his forefinger to the air, and with a single tap he froze water vapor into solid ice. With these growing spears, he swatted the Sorcerers down like houseflies.

In the end, it was only Ranma who stood on the ridge, with the battered, beaten Sorcerers strewn about like action figures after playtime.

_That'll teach you,_ thought Ranma. _That'll teach all of you to stand between me and Akane._

"Ranchan?"

Ranma spun, alert and poised to strike, but the voice that said his name belonged to friend, not foe. Kuonji Ukyō crawled over the lip of the ridge, spatula tied to her back.

"Is it really you?" she said.

Her hair was in tangles. Smears of mud marred her face and stained hair ribbon. Even her trusty spatula sported a nick on the corner and a dent in the handle.

"Wow, Ucchan. Yeah, it's me, but…you look terrible."

The spatula was in her hands and clocked him before he even sighted it.

"Okay," said Ranma, twisting his neck straight. "I probably deserved that."

"Bastard!" said Ukyō. "That's not what you say to a girl when she's been to hell and back looking for you!"

"I just meant I could see that! Honest, Ucchan, I can see what's going on here."

He looked past her, to the flooded springs and the Amazons racing to get across below.

"It's all gone to hell."

Ukyō relaxed, putting her weight on the spatula. "It really has."

"Ukyō!" A voice from below yelled up the hill. "Is it safe?"

"Who's that?" said Ranma. "Is that Ryōga of all people out here?"

"Yeah it's safe!" Ukyō called back. "And guess who I found keeping the Sorcerers busy!"

Down the slope, Mousse and Ryōga steady climbed uphill to meet them, but a girl with a pair of chúi quickly leapfrogged them both.

"Ranma!"

"Uh-oh, Sham—ack!"

The glomps of Amazons are known to crush bone, but Shampoo was a touch more gentle.

"Shampoo so worry! Ranma no can get kidnapped again!"

"Oi, I wouldn't say I was _kidnapped_—"

"Then what would you call it?" Crouching on the ledge, Ryōga offered a hand to Mousse behind him. "Sending Kunō to get the message to us. You're just like a damsel in distress!"

"Am not!"

"Is this how you greet your rescuers, Saotome?" said Mousse. "I sense so little gratitude from you."

"You guys are ones to talk! I just saved all your asses right here!" He calmed himself, disentangling his body from Shampoo's arms. "But," he said, smiling warmly, "I've got to hand it to you guys. I didn't expect an entire Amazon army to come to my rescue—I mean, not _rescue_. Dammit, what's another word that doesn't make me sound like a Disney princess?"

The group erupted in grins and laughter.

"Aw, come on, there has to be another word!" he said. "Sheesh, you just don't give a guy a break, do you."

"No, Snow White, I don't think we do," said Ukyō, starting another round of chuckles.

"You too, Ucchan? Wonderful. I'm surprised Akane hasn't come over to lay into me like the rest of you."

Then and there, any mirth gained at Ranma's expense immediately evaporated.

"Where is she, anyway?" said Ranma. "She trip over a rock and get herself sidelined or something?"

Ryōga made a fist, shaking. The group cast their eyes to the ground.

"Guys? Where's Akane?"

Ukyō was first to speak. "She's—"

"Akane gone," said Shampoo. "We get separated when attack Sorcerers two day ago."

"Gone? What do you mean, 'gone'?"

"It was in battle," said Mousse. "The Sorcerers cut us off from her, and then the springs exploded. You can't blame Shampoo for this, Ranma: there was nothing to be done."

Two days?

Akane had been missing for two whole days?

She was lost on this mountain, where cursed animals attacked at the slightest offense?

Had the curse waters had taken her, too? Was she a beetle someone stepped on because they didn't know better? Was she a captive in Henna's lab, and Ranma just didn't notice, didn't see her in front of his face?

"We tried everything we could think of to find her," said Ukyō. "We risked everything to come back here and make one more try."

A flash of light, green at first blush then burning yellow and gold. The sun's rays peeked over the cliffs that surrounded Jusenkyō, bathing the basin in warm, clear hues.

Yet for all the comfort of sunlight on this cool spring day, Ranma felt the dawn could only be an ill omen, a portent of terror.

"No, Ucchan, it's too late," he said. "The Sorcerers have reinforcements, and they're already here."

#

From his place in the Guide's tea room, Kohl—the Lady's advisor, the Sorcerers' captain—watched his men and the Amazons clash across the mountainside. Or rather, he felt them, for their attacks rippled across the springs on eddies of ki. He knew without seeing that Ranma had escaped lockup in the mountain, that Ranma single-handedly dismantled the Sorcerers' defensive line. If that were all he felt, it wouldn't have worried Kohl, but there was more: like a stone in the shallows of a pond, Ranma broke the ripples that came after him and created more of his own. He attacked. He fought back. He assailed the Sorcerers not with force of hand and fist. He used their magic against them.

He felt like a Sorcerer to Kohl's heart.

No, that was wrong. The people of the village—their magic was contained, controlled. It was something unique and discrete, but when ki flowed through Ranma, it came out turbulent and volatile. It spiraled in chaotic loops and whirls. It was explosive.

It was something worse. Whatever Ranma was doing—whatever he'd become—it was something worse.

"Send every man we have to capture her again," Kohl ordered his deputy. "Spare no one to take Saotome Ranma back—"

BOOM, clink! The house rattled. Glass cracked. The great window overlooking the springs split across a diagonal. Shouting came from outside—shouting that, were it well below, where Ranma stood, should've been much fainter.

Kohl jogged from the tea room, making his way through the halls.

Clink!

And a barbed arrowhead zipped through a windowpane, digging into the plaster of the near wall.

The Amazons came from above. Crouching behind boulders, they lobbed arrows into the Guide's house, piercing the windows, blanketing the door in covering fire.

"I see you there, young captain!" Cologne crouched atop a boulder, calling out to the house below her. "Surrender, and we may yet spare you and your charges' lives!"

Kohl closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind and soul. Though Cologne's aura forbade interference from his own, that protection didn't extend to the rock she stood on, to the mountain all of these Riverfolk were bound to.

Kohl reached out, and the boulders shattered. Their fragments flew like the remnants of Alderaan under the Death Star's withering glare, and the Amazons who hid behind them scattered like rebels with no place to flee. Once in the open, once flushed out, they were ripe targets to pick off.

TEW, TEW, TEW! Bolts of lightning struck the Amazons down, thundering over the mountain. Thick storm clouds billowed and rolled. They reflected the morning sunlight in oppressive red hues.

It was a sign to everyone on the mountain of the new battle that raged, and far below, Ranma heeded quickly. "That's Cologne," he told the others, the ones from Nerima who came to him that day. "She's attacking the Sorcerers on the mountain; she's going after the channelers. That's who you need to find. That's who you need to stop if you want to get out of here."

"Slow down, Saotome," said Mousse. "What you're saying doesn't make any sense."

"Doesn't make sense? How the hell does it not make sense? Those bastards have reinforcements and more channelers coming. Everything from here to the cliffs will be their damn maze." He pointed to the storm clouds and the house that lay below them. "You guys need to go up there. Find the channelers and stop them, or none of you will get out."

"You keep talking about us like you're not included," said Ukyō. "What about you, Ranchan?"

He glanced up the peak. "I need to see." He put foot to hard rock and climbed. "Get to the Guide's house. You guys are needed there. Trust me on this."

"Where do you think you're going?" cried Ryōga. "You can't run away; you have a duty to Akane-san!"

_Believe me, Ryōga. I know that too well._

He scrambled up the mountainside with no path or trail to guide him, just the rocky crag at the top to aim for and the sparkling light of the sun off the flooded springs to erode the dark, but Ranma saw not the peak before him. Instead, memories and visions overflowed his mind's eye.

Akane, dashing over the Dragon Tap. _"Ranma! Get ready to make a run for it!"_

Akane, when he held only her clothes in his frozen hands. She'd appeared to him then, as a vision, a specter of the dead who, in his mind and his alone, walked down the street by the canals of home, a street that was the path to heaven.

"_I'm going ahead now, Ranma. I'll wait for you."_

Akane, lifeless, dripping, and cold. He wrapped her in his own shirt, but she wouldn't say a word, for though he'd immersed her in the cold cursed water, the last spark of life wouldn't come to her. At the base of the Dragon Tap, she was dead in his arms.

And every image of her wounded him, like columns of ice spearing through his gut, for they were times he could do nothing to help her, nothing to save her. Like with the Amazon in Henna's lab, they were times his mouth went dry and his vision black.

They were times he was helpless.

_So what if I'm still cursed,_ he thought, sprinting up the slope. _So what if you hate me, Akane, for not being a man, or just not being the man you wanted me to be. I don't care. As long as you're alive, as long as you're safe, I don't care._

He yanked himself over the final ledge and stood tall atop the rounded peak of Mount Kensei, but from that distance, the springs shrank to small sparkles, and the war being waged below looked like a battle between anthills, not people.

He was helpless here, too. Helpless to find Akane. Helpless to protect her, for nobody knew where she might be.

_Dammit, Akane, I'm not going home without you! _ He shuddered. _It's not even home without you…_

Far below, in the mountain's shadow, another army of ants intruded on the spring ground. Black ants they were, and they were many. They crossed the tree line and fanned out, establishing a perimeter at the points of their staves.

_I may not know where you are, but I _can_ buy you some time._

He teetered on the edge of the western slope, putting his back to the battle behind him and the sounds of war.

_If you're still on this rock somewhere, if you see this army coming to trap us all, run. For once in your life, Akane, don't be stubborn. Get out of here, and I'll give you all the time I can._

He leaned forward, shuffling down to meet an army with but his own two hands.

#

'_For once in your life, Akane, don't be stubborn. Get out of here, and I'll give you all the time I can.'_

She opened her eyes to light and shadow, to white walls and black…somewhere. Blackness right in front of her face, a shimmering before her eyes that she couldn't truly see. How long she'd slept she couldn't say. It was the only way to get the pain, the ringing, out of her head.

BANG! The room shook. The bulb in the ceiling flickered, buzzing the filament within. Beyond that, the world was like a television with garbled sound. The words people spoke made no sense to her.

In her prison, Tendō Akane sat up. Her head throbbed, pounding as if a sadistic dentist was having his way with her molars. She gritted her teeth to bear the pain, but that only made the pounding worse.

"Strange," she muttered, holding her head. "I thought I heard Ranma…"

Ranma, telling her to get out. Of course he would. He never had any confidence in her.

And why should he? Akane ran her fingers through her hair, but by her temple, the strands stuck together. Blood from her head wound caked in crystals there. She bled because she wasn't fast enough. She bled because she couldn't fight her way out.

She rose, but she swayed wildly, dazed, dizzy. Even now she was weak, just standing on her own two feet.

TEW, TEW! Thunder-cracks rocked the cliffside house. Losing her balance, Akane stumbled, throwing a free hand the doorway.

The unlocked door banged on its hinges. She tumbled through the open space, slamming her shoulder on the concrete below. She braced, expecting a staff-point to the gut for her trouble.

But to her surprise, there wasn't a guard in sight.

"Eh?" She picked herself up, wandering the halls. "They're all gone?"

She peeked around a corner, looking to the kitchen and the front door.

TEW!

Bright, burning heat! The flash scalded her eyes. Akane doubled over, shielding her face until the fire before her eyelids dimmed to a faint simmer. She rubbed her eyes open.

Flick, flick! Arrows lodged in the windowsills. Sorcerers took cover behind the front door, cracking it open to shoot ice lances through the gap.

_The Amazons! _ She ducked back around the corner, hiding. _Cologne and Shampoo—they're attacking! _

She glanced down the hall in both directions. _I need a weapon._

TEW! The walls beamed with light. Thunder rattled her ears and echoed through her skull. The twinge of pain in her head amplified to a piercing, drawn-out screech.

_Ranma…I thought I heard Ranma. He was saying I should run._ She touched a hand to her temple, the place where iron cap had bashed her head in just an hour before. The wound had closed, it seemed, but the flesh was tender to the touch. She could feel the muscle beneath tensing as she clamped her jaw down to bear the pain.

_So what if I'm hurt! I'm a martial artist! I can fight! _

On an ankle that wouldn't support her weight? With eyes that ached from a simple flash of light?

_But they have Ranma! Isn't he here somewhere? _

She rounded the corner, creeping past the Sorcerers barricaded at the front of the house. Arrows peppered the exterior walls. Thunder shook the foundations, and Sorcerer and Amazon alike shouted to their comrades with words Akane couldn't understand.

_No,_ she thought. _If Ranma were here, he wouldn't be quiet. I'd _know_. Everyone would._ She ducked into the tea room. _Get out of here first, then help the Amazons come in and tear this place apart. That's a plan._

She shivered. Never did she think she'd be in this room again.

Strangely, it'd seemed a tad bigger when she was a doll.

It was also one of the few places and times she'd seen Ranma cry.

_Don't worry, Ranma. When we find you, I'll make up for all of this. I don't know how, but I will._

She ran her hands around the windowsill, but the seal around the pane was smooth and featureless.

_What's this? How do you open—oh forget this._ She wielded a chair by its legs. _Yeah. This is a good weight._ She wound the chair back and swung!

Crack! Jagged shards of glass tumbled over the side, clinking on the rock below.

"What are you doing?"

Akane flinched. She turned and spun, shielding herself with the chair.

The captain watched her from the doorway, eyes narrowed. "How did you get here?"

"Does it matter?" She turned the chair by its leg and threw!

TCH-WHAM! The chair splintered on a dome-shaped energy barrier. The captain emerged unscathed.

"Everything in this room moves according to my will," said the captain. "If holding you is so much trouble, perhaps we should kill you and see how Saotome Ranma reacts?"

Akane huffed. _It would've worked if I'd had a desk to throw at you instead of a chair._

"If you plan to escape, that's impossible." The captain waved her hand, and crinkling ice grew over the broken window, forming a solid, clear seal over the hole. "Now…" The captain drew a serrated knife. "Come with me."

Akane stood her ground.

"Now, or we—" The captain flinched. Her eyes gazed past Akane, through the window.

Though distorted in the ice's irregular folds, the image of an Amazon, bow and arrow in hand, appeared clearly enough through the ice.

Tink-tew! The arrow punched through the ice, cracking it, bowing it inward, but it stopped in mid-flight, hovering before the captain, who snatched it from the air and tossed it aside. She cupped her hand slightly, and a ball of light formed in her palm.

TCH-CHEW! A beam of energy blasted the window and the walls around it. The concrete smoldered. The brickwork charred.

The captain yanked Akane by the wrist and pulled back, calling to her men. Sorcerers pulled back from the line at the front entrance, showering the remnants of the window with fire, ice, and lightning.

_No way! _ thought Akane. _If they're coming from both sides, I'm not giving up here, not yet! _

She slapped the captain's hand away and dashed down the hall.

But the captain wasn't far behind. She held her hands together, as if to hold a ball between them, and the air warped between her fingers.

Ti-POW!

A compression wave catapulted Akane off her feet. Her hip and shoulder slammed into a doorframe, cracking the plaster off the walls.

"Oof!"

She tumbled into an unlit washroom, with only the light off a mirror penetrating the dark.

The captain stormed in after her, yanking her to her feet. She pressed the knife to Akane's neck and met her gaze. "Why?" said the captain. "Why do you continue to fight? You're injured; you can't hope to defeat me. Why do you persist?"

Akane glared. "Because Ranma deserves nothing less."

Flick flick flick! Down the hall, by the door to the tea room, three Sorcerers fell. A volley of arrows felled them cleanly, with but short, quiet groans to mourn their passing.

"Inside," the captain hissed. "Now!"

Locking them both inside, the captain pinned Akane to the door and pressed the knife to her neck.

"Do not speak," said the captain. "Do not scream."

Outside, the cautious footfalls of Amazons reverberated through the hallway. The invaders whispered to one another, but while some words were gibberish to Akane, others she understood all too clearly.

"Clear over here," said a voice with a distinct Kansai accent. "You?"

"No sign of any more Sorcerers," said a man's voice.

_Ukyō and Ryōga-kun! Shampoo must be here, too! _ Akane twitched, but the captain applied pressure, holding her at bay. The blood of her carotid pulsed against the knife's edge. Her weak ankle ached, sore from exertion. The captain's warm, oppressive breath tickled the back of her neck.

_I can't stay like this. I _won't_ stay like this. She's going to get the jump on Ryōga-kun and the others._

The captain dipped a second dagger in oil, a foul-smelling substance, a toxin that smelled of necrosis and death.

"Watch that hallway," said Mousse. "And down the other end, too."

"I've got it!" Ryōga trotted down the corridor. His footfalls grew closer. He breathed heavily.

He put a hand on the knob.

"RYŌGA-KUN!"

SLAM! Akane's skull bounced off the door, knocking her backward, into the sink.

TEW! A beam of energy blasted the the door off it's hinges. It kicked Ryōga through the corridor wall, showering him in concrete rubble and dust.

The captain turned back to Akane, who sat beaten, in a battered daze.

"You are foolishly brave," said the Sorcerer. "It is only for that—"

The poisoned dagger cut across Akane's thigh.

"…that I don't kill you now."

Akane staggered, pulling herself up by the lip of the commode, but her muscles failed her. The world went shimmered.

She slumped face-down on the porcelain tile.

_I'm sorry, Ranma. I guess I failed…_

And the black of the captain's tunic was the last thing she saw.

"That's it," said Kohl. "Sleep now."

"Akane-chan?" Kuonji Ukyō dashed down the hall, spatula in hand. "Ryōga, you okay? Did you hear that?"

_I heard it,_ thought Kohl, _and I have no time for this._ He extended his hand into the corridor, and Ukyō's spatula floated into his grip as if attracted by a giant magnet.

"What the hell?" said Ukyō. "You can't do that! I like that spatula too much!"

THWAP! He smacked her across the head with it, knocking her square into the Amazon line.

_On second thought, I dislike this weapon._ He tossed the spatula aside, and from the tea room, his trusty battle staff helicoptered over the Amazon invaders, spinning toward his hand.

Until Hibiki Ryōga snatched it from mid-air and crushed the wood squarely in his palm.

"You take Akane-san," he said. "You take her and you hold her. You make her cry out for me, and I thought, if I heard her say my name instead of Ranma's, I'd be happy, but I'm not. I'm not happy at all." He glared. "In fact, the way she said my name just now—it makes me very _depressed_."

"Back!" cried Shampoo, shoving her men aside. "All back!"

Kohl backpedaled to the washroom doorway. He braced himself in the doorframe, and a wall of ice grew where the unhinged door used to be…

CRUNCH, BAM! A sphere of purple light crashed into the cliffside house, punching a hole through the roof. It drilled into the ground with explosive force, boring a crater from the pure rock of the mountain. The exterior wall exploded, exposing half a corridor and the tea room that used to be around the corner. Rubble smothered the Amazons, and even the Sorcerers shied away from the dust and dirt that flew. Only Kohl's side of the cliffside mansion remained—protected by his magic, it kept him and Akane safe.

(A note to those at home: damage from floods, earthquakes, household pets, and the Shishi Hokōdan are not often covered by your home insurance. Contact your broker for more information.)

Kohl lowered his barrier of ice but dared not step further, lest he fall into Ryōga's crater. The house was in shambles. A dry, cool morning breeze flowed into the building from where the ceiling and roof used to be.

…where an attic should be. From the remnants of the attic, six pale figures peered through the gap in the ceiling, the hole in the attic floor.

_The channelers! They're exposed! _

Flick, flick, flick. Arrows peppered the opening and buried themselves in flesh.

"No!" cried Kohl.

"An unfortunate turn for you, is it not, young captain?" Haughty and proud, Cologne put down a borrowed bow and strolled into the ruins of the Guide's house, taking position before Shampoo at the lip of the crater. Outside, the battle waged on as remnants of the Sorcerers' forces did battle with the Amazons in Cologne's party, but the battle was, in a geometric sense, one-sided: the Amazons owned the Sorcerers' flank. Their invasion of the Guide's house from below and above pinched the Sorcerers in the middle.

And yet, the captain could've still turned the tide, were it not for the distraction with Akane, the diversion that took him off one front line and left him with too much to do on the other.

Kohl snarled.

"Your channelers lay dying now," said Cologne. "Your forces are surrounded on all sides. Surrender, captain. We will give what aid we can spare. You will all be treated humanely, provided you don't resist."

Humane treatment. What did it matter if they lived only as prisoners of war? Even with the Lady's reinforcements marching on the spring ground, the Riverfolk would make off with the Sorcerers' captain. It would be a tremendous blow. Only time would keep the Amazons from puzzling out the Sorcerers' true goal: a new sieve in the body of Saffron. If the Amazons came to the Phoenix tribe's aid…

Then the Lady would have no choice. As much as Kohl might try to prevent it, the Lady would have only one option left: to break Tilaka again, to plunge his soul in darkness once more. Without Saffron, no one could take his place.

No one but Kohl. And the Lady wouldn't have it. These Riverfolk, if they captured him, would make that impossible, too.

"I take from your silence you refuse our generous offer," said Cologne. "So be it. Shoot her!"

He didn't even blink. Simple reflex shrouded him in a hard, palpable barrier. The arrows bounced off, harmless. He stepped down, into the crater, perfectly safe.

"Very well then," said Cologne. "Warriors, take her by hand!"

A pair of Amazons charged, bearing sword and spear.

_I will _not_ be defeated by wood and metal. I am a Sorcerer, and I won't fail! I can't fail! _

With his mind, he yanked the weapons from their wielders' hands and hurled them aside. Two Amazons came at him with fists and feet, but Kohl caught them both with his bare hands.

_Not when my failure punishes Tilaka. Not again._ He squeezed. _Not again! _

"What are you doing?" said Cologne. "Don't just stand there! Attack!"

The two Amazons flinched, a strange confusion in their eyes. "Elder!" said one. "Something's wrong!"

"How many times have I told you not to call me—"

Kohl relinquished his grasp, freeing the Amazons. They held up their hands.

Their fingers were black as soot.

"What the hell?" said Ukyō. "What did she do?"

The fingers, then the wrists. Lines of black ran up their arms, turning everything behind them to ash.

"My gods," said Cologne. "She wields the magic of Bailu!"

The magic of Bailu: the power summoned by a Sorcerer prince that obliterated an Amazon army on the brink of victory. The Sorcerers won that day not by force or overwhelming numbers. They won because when Bailu was held at sword-point by his would-be captors, an outburst of power annihilated both friend and foe alike. It was on the mixed ashes of their kin and enemies that the Sorcerers built the Lady's tower.

And once again, the Amazons would bear witness to that power first-hand.

"Elder, help us!" said the Amazon lieutenant. "Help—"

His head and chest blackened, like a roast left over the fire to burn and burn. The two warriors stood frozen, unable to move, speak, or scream. The ash lines spread over their bodies and enveloped them head to toe. Where two living, breathing Amazons had been, now only black statues remained.

And even that was fleeting. A gust of wind from the east ruffled clothes and hair. The remains of the two warriors eroded, flying off into the breeze. Ash fell over the combatants that day, both Amazon and Sorcerer, like a black snow of death.

Kohl stared at his hands, opening and closing them as if to make sure they were his.

_The magic of Bailu? _

"Well, old lady?" said Ryōga. "You Amazons seem to have a trick for everything, right? How do we defeat that?"

Cologne stared blankly, gaping. "I—I don't know."

"We defeat like any other enemy," said Shampoo, stepping forward. "We attack!"

"No, child!" said Cologne. "Stop!"

Shampoo hurled her chúi forward like hammers and leapt to attack with her fists!

"No!"

Kohl ducked and swiped, catching his hand on Shampoo's tunic. The fabric ripped, and though Kohl came up with only a section of cloth, it was enough.

The shorn piece of Shampoo's shirt turned to soot in Kohl's hands and wafted away in the breeze.

Then and there, the Amazon army made up their minds about this affair. Long had they heard the stories of how their brethren turned to ash at the Battle of the Waterfall, and now they'd witnessed the horror of that power first-hand. It would be difficult, in hindsight, to know for sure who backed off the line first, but once that one warrior did, no one else had a mind of their own about them.

They all ran.

"Hold ground!" said Shampoo. "Hold your ground, all of you! The fight isn't over!"

Kohl spun. He clenched his fist and jabbed!

CRUNCH! His knuckles bored into the rock wall of the crater. At the lip, Shampoo clamored to go back for more, but Cologne held her great-granddaughter as bay.

"Think for a moment, child!" said Cologne. "She's touched two of our finest already, and we _breathe_ their remains! The warriors are in retreat! We must do the same!" She cleared her throat, addressing their Japanese companions in their native tongue. "We must fall back, quickly!"

"Shampoo no leave without Ranma!"

"And I won't abandon Akane-san!" said Ryōga.

Twin staff points clocked him across the face. His fighting stick broken in two, Kohl moved in on the dazed Ryōga, kicking and swiping, yet too was he cautious: Ryōga backpedaled, circling the crater.

"And you do no good to her as a pile of ash!" said Cologne. "Fall back! Now!"

"Akane-san?" he called out, ducking Kohl's punches. "Akane-san!"

A walking stick jabbed at Ryōga's side. "I have no time for your affections to get you killed," said Cologne.

He fell to his knees, startled, helpless. "What have you done to me?"

Cologne hopped into the fray, protecting Ryōga with her own body. "That pressure point has robbed you use of your legs. Now, bid _adieu_ to the good captain, hm?" She took his arm and draped it over her shoulders.

Kohl hung back, channeling energy through his palms.

"Akane-san!" yelled Ryōga. "Akane-san!"

Cologne jumped!

TCH-CHEW! A sustained beam of light blasted the standing walls of the house, but Cologne and Shampoo leapt over them, using the concrete for cover.

The energy bled out of Kohl. The attack ceased. The battle already decided, the Amazons made their retreat. Ukyō retrieved her spatula, and Konatsu helped her stagger through the ruins out the front door. With the will to fight on their side, the Sorcerers harassed the Amazons all the way out, but the captain, Kohl, stood behind. He walked among the ruins, the broken glass, the shattered walls. On the ground, scattered fragments of a clay pot lay among soft dirt and the roots of a flower, a potted white chrysanthemum. He brought the petals to his eye, holding the stem between his thumb and forefinger.

_I don't understand,_ thought Kohl. _I can hold this flower, and it doesn't wither. It doesn't die. It's well. It's healthy._

He closed his eyes, focusing on the moments before the Amazons charged him.

_If I fail, Tilaka will suffer. If I fail, the Lady will have no choice but to send the priests to his chambers again, to make him scream. And I'll watch. I'll watch and be silent while the punishment meant for me goes to someone who doesn't deserve it. Again._

The flower withered and blackened, and a gust of wind scattered its remains among the ruins.

_I see. This is the sort of power the Lady always warned us about, that the Sieve was always meant to keep us from knowing._

Kohl made a fist, and traces of ash seeped through the gaps in his fingers.

_It's a power born of misery and despair._

#

"We must make our escape quickly!" said Cologne, lumbering with the weight of Ryōga to support. "Perhaps I could get some help here?"

Mousse and Konatsu swooped in and took Ryōga by an arm each, supporting him by the shoulders.

"I swear, old bat, if we leave without Akane-san, I'll fight every one of your villagers if I have to!" said Ryōga. "This is wrong!"

TEW TEW TEW! Lightning bolts charred the ground behind them. The Amazons fled, but the Sorcerers weren't about to let them escape unscathed. It seemed even a last-second reversal of fortunes wouldn't deter the captain's men.

"Do any of you have a spyglass?" said Cologne. "Or binoculars. Either will do."

"I fail to see what binoculars have to do with it!" said Ryōga.

"Great-grandmother, here!" Shampoo tossed her a spyglass.

Cologne extended the spyglass as they ran, examining its optics and mechanism for defects. "Good. I think this will do nicely."

"I'm with Ryōga on this!" said Ukyō, strapping her spatula to her back. "Why they hell are we running? We had the advantage! We can still fight!"

"If that's the spell I think it was," said Cologne, "trust me: we're lucky to still be alive. Even it wasn't, though, our time is precious and short. Hibiki, take this spyglass. See for yourself why we must flee now and worry about captives later."

"Just what am I supposed to be looking at?" said Ryōga.

"You see a dark blob by the tree line to the west?"

Holding him by the elbows, Konatsu and Mousse pulled Ryōga up to scan the distance. Though the view through the spyglass bounced and jittered, Ryōga could see clearly enough what lay in the distance.

"Sorcerers!" he cried. "More of them?"

"The Sorcerers' reinforcements," said Cologne. "They are many, are they not?"

Ryōga made a fist. "I dare say there's nearly a hundred of them. And we've been fighting what, two dozen?"

"The odds are slim," said Cologne. "But this is not unexpected. Ranma told me himself they would come at dawn, and they are only a few minutes late." She looked about. "Where is Ranma? I thought he was with you."

"When he heard Akane-chan wasn't with us, he ran up the mountain," said Ukyō. "I don't know where exactly or why."

"I swear to you that was her!" said Ryōga. "She called my name; I'm sure of it!"

"I know!" said Ukyō. "I heard her, too."

"But where's Ranma?" said Cologne. "You mean none of you went with him? You let him go alone? Again?"

"Oh, sure, it's okay to leave Akane-chan behind!" said Ukyō. "But when it comes to Ranma, let's put on the breaks and see if we can hold off a Sorcerer army!"

"Choose your words wisely, Kuonji," said Cologne, clenching her walking stick. "They may be your last."

"I know where Ranma is."

All eyes turned to Ryōga. "You do?" said Ukyō. "How?"

He gazed through the spyglass, grim and sober.

"He's down there."

"What?" Cologne snatched the spyglass from him. Sure enough, as the Sorcerers marched on the grounds, Ranma stood alone, blocking their path.

#

They approached in columns, orderly, meticulous. They were systematic in everything they did, from how they walked to how they fanned out, surrounding Ranma. They encircled him with staff points in perfect alignment, a precision formation, one practiced and honed for a moment just like this one.

But Ranma paid them no heed. Like a statue, he moved not a muscle, meditating yet perfectly still on his own two feet.

_The old ghoul will get the job done. She'll get the channelers up on the mountain and stop them. I'm not worried about that._

From the throng of Sorcerers a single warrior barged to the front, penetrating the circle that trapped Ranma. He was short in stature. His lip curled with a constant sneer. He planted his staff in the ground and glared at Ranma, watching him through wide yet narrowed eyes.

He was Lieutenant Xiu.

"What are you doing here? In that body, no less."

_But if those guys don't hurry and get out of here, everyone inside will be a prisoner, like me. Shampoo and Ucchan, do you know how they'll hurt you? They hurt me, and I'm a guy, even if I'm not all the time. It doesn't matter to them. You're tough; you'll fight back like you should, but I don't know how much it'll make a difference. Mousse and Ryōga, too. I'm not so proud to say I can do this alone. There've been times we've worked together, and it's been fun. Half the time you guys try to backstab me, but I guess that's just how it is._

"Outsider! How did you escape?"

_But Akane's here, too. Somewhere. I may not know how to find you, tomboy, but this I know how to do. This is the only thing I _can_ do. I don't know if it'll make a difference, if you're lost somewhere and can't be found, but it doesn't matter. I don't care. If I can stand here just a minute against these guys, it's worth it. If you're smart, if you can see me, get away._

Xiu stomped forward, shouting in Ranma's face. "I demand you explain yourself, outsider!"

_The last thing I want is to see you here._

"Answer me!"

WHAM! Ranma's knuckles answered Xiu. The loud-mouthed Sorcerer crumpled to the ground, cradling his cheek.

"You talk too much," said Ranma.

Glaring daggers, Xiu scrambled to his feet. He straightened his tunic and retrieved his staff, standing tall. "Sorcerers of the Guard!" he cried. "Take her down!"

The circle closed in, steady and deliberate.

_This is the only thing I know how to do for you._ He planted his feet, lowered his shoulder, and charged.

KA-PAM! Staves splintered. Ranma bowled over the Sorcerers, bursting from the circle.

"Come on!" said Ranma. "Is that the best you can do?"

It wasn't. It was only the start.

With fire and light, wind and water, the Sorcerers tangled with Ranma. Beams of energy cut and drilled into the earth, lighting the sparse plants and weeds aflame.

But Ranma was nimble and quick on his feet. He dashed and leapt across the springs, jumping high above the Sorcerers, and though they flew and floated in the sky, he soared with them. Long had he trained to fight and win between the clouds. Where he couldn't rely on the ground to steady his feet and let him deliver a knockout blow, his own body gave him power: the power of momentum and spin. Whirling like a top, he pitied the poor Sorcerer that thought to fly in his way.

BAM! A dizzying punch sniped the Sorcerer from the sky, and Ranma landed on his feet, graceful like a cat. An outstretch hand and knee absorbed his fall.

The Sorcerers shouted to one another—Xiu most of all barked his orders, and the men obeyed. A contingent of the Guard broke from the main pack, an armed escort for their most precious companions.

_The channelers! _

A pale, golden glow simmered over the battlefield. Translucent tethers connected the Sorcerers to their lieutenant, who drew the energy into his hands. The Sorcerer of the Guard staggered and stumbled on their feet as Xiu sapped them of life. From dozens of warriors, he gathered raw power for a massive, tremendous shot.

And, for just a moment, time slowed for Ranma. He eyed the channelers while they made their getaway. He followed the tiny pulses of energy as they streamed from every direction and gathered in Xiu's palms.

_This is it, Akane. Maybe I couldn't be a man for you…_

He cupped his hands together, and a tiny crystal of ice formed between them.

_But I _will_ protect you! _

The tethers fizzled out. Xiu fired!

And where once but a small crystal had been, an enormous sphere of ice grew. Ranma shielded himself in an ice sheet.

TCH-TCH-BAM! The beam of light shattered the sphere. Ice burned off to gas in an instant. Chunks of the sphere bombarded the battlefield, and a pressure wave kicked outward, toppling the Sorcerers in its path.

Ranma tapped on the ice that protected him, and it crinkled and melted cleanly. The Sorcerer Guard lay stunned. A chunk of ice clocked Xiu, and a cut from his head mixed blood with water, a dilute, reddening mess.

But more importantly, the channelers and their escort sprawled on the ground, writhing, helpless.

And Ranma towered over them. Before a weak, pale channeler, Ranma froze a small, thin beam of ice from his palm to the channeler's chest.

_There ain't no other way about it,_ thought Ranma. _You're number four._

The tip of the spike extended slowly, cutting through the channeler's robes, drawing blood from a nick in his skin.

_And I'm not sorry._

KA-PAM! A fireball blasted Ranma in the back, pounding him face-first into the dirt. The ice spike shattered. The channelers and their escorts found their feet and scattered from the impact crater.

"Argh…" Ranma dug himself out of the hole and patted the embers on his shirt out. "What the hell was that?"

KA-PAM! Fire stung his eyes and burned the buttons off his shirt. Ranma staggered. Barricading himself behind ice, he collected himself and got his first clear look at his attacker.

"Wuya…"

The captain hovered over the flooded springs, floating still. Even her hair wafted mysteriously, as if her magic suspended her in a a bubble of zero-gravity.

"I feel you, Saotome Ranma," she said. "We all feel you."

The Sorcerer Guard dusted themselves off, suppressing their groans, tending to the cut and bruises Ranma inflicted on them. They stood tall, ready to fight once again.

Ranma touched his lip, and between his thumb and forefinger, he rubbed a drop of blood to a dry, clotting paste. His eyes ached. His elbows tingled with warmth—a sure sign, in his mind, of at least a second-degree burn.

_I'm almost spent._

He looked to the mountain beyond Wuya, a rocky crag draped in shadows of the morning sun.

_But Shampoo and Ucchan are still up there. And there's still something I can do for them, too._

He pressed his hands to the sheet of ice, and handles grew from the flat plane.

But Wuya wouldn't let him go without a fight. She blasted the shield with fire and piercing currents of air, but the sheet held. Ranma dashed for the edge of the floodwaters and touched a hand to the ground.

_Come on…_

The ground crinkled with frost. Ice spread from his hand over the lake the flood had made: a pristine surface, a block of ice solid from top to bottom. With his free hand, Ranma barricaded himself in a frozen dome, and the ice on the lake spread for meter by meter, inch by inch. Staves hacked and jabbed at his shield. Fire melted it away, and focused pressure waves cracked it inward.

_Just a little more…_

Wuya floated to ground level. She planted her feet in the frozen ground, made a fist, and reared back for one final blow.

CRACK! The punch rattled through Ranma's arm. The ice of his own shield buried him.

And there, the Sorcerers spared nothing to make sure they finished the job. A hundred beams smothered Ranma in light.

And then there was black.

#

"No! Ranchan!"

From the pit of his own igloo, the Sorcerers dragged Ranma away, holding him at staff-point even as he sagged, limp in their arms.

"Dammit, why?" Ukyō shattered the spyglass on a rock, panting, shaking. "Why couldn't he hold on just a little longer? We were almost there!"

Halfway down the mountain, Cologne led the remnants of her army, heading the pack.

"More than his own freedom, Ranma thought it important for us to escape," she said. "And escape we will, to fight another day. You may think this a defeat, but it is not. In the brief time Ranma was free of the Sorcerers, he told me much. We know the Sorcerers' goal now, and I doubt this is the last we'll see of Ranma. In fact, I'm sure of it."

With that, Cologne steered her army away from the last battle, lest the Sorcerers catch sight of them and attack. On the frozen lake that Ranma made, the Amazon army fled. Through a forest free of illusions, they raced to the cliffs that surrounded the basin.

And it was there Cologne, Shampoo, Ukyō, Mousse, Ryōga, and Konatsu stood, atop the cliffs by noon that day, when the mountain before them shimmered and vanished, shrouded in the Sorcerers' Maze, for among the ruins of the Guide's house, a new set of channelers sat: a dozen they were in number, and the size and power of their Maze dwarfed the one that came before. The Amazons may have penetrated Jusenkyō before with their ballista; now, they'd only get in if they fell straight from the sky.

Confident in their defenses, the Sorcerers relaxed. They tended the wounded. They washed their tunics and slept.

And they drank tea.

"You Sorcerers are pretty full of yourselves, aren't you."

In the remains of the tea room, Akane sipped a cup of jasmine, making a face.

"I guess I'm going to have to get used to this stuff."

Across from her, her drinking partner poured himself another cup. "We don't drink this in my village, either," said Kohl. "But I find it acceptable."

Akane massaged her temple. Bandages wrapped around her face. She cradled her ribs. "And I'm supposed to get used to it?"

"You are Japanese," said Kohl. "I expect that your knowledge of the Riverfolk's forces is little, isn't it."

"You're saying I'm worthless?"

Kohl grimaced. "I would be well within my authority to take you to our village and have you interrogated further."

"So why don't you?" said Akane. "I can take it. I'm not telling you a damn thing."

A draft poured in from the hole where the window used to be. "I would rather not spare the forces to hold another prisoner."

Akane raised an eyebrow. "You're…offering to let me go?"

"Now and only now will this offer be given," said Kohl. "I won't present it to you again."

"But you still have Ranma," said Akane. "Don't you?"

Kohl was silent.

"You must be crazy if you think I'm going to leave him with you," said Akane. "But…" She spun the cup on the table, letting the liquid slosh around the sides. "If he were here, he'd say I should go. Maybe in that insufferable sort of tone where he makes it sound like I can't fend for myself, but that's what he'd say. And as much as I want to see him, I'm not doing him any good here with you."

Kohl rose, making for the doorway.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"I must fetch someone who can take you through the maze," he said, disappearing into the hall.

Akane raced after him. "We're doing this right now?"

"Yes." The captain, her hair wet, set down a cracked vase in the ruins of the hall. "The Advisor wishes you to leave immediately."

And so, in Wuya's arms, Akane soared over the springs and the forests around them, and while the confusing jumble of the Maze deceived her eyes, the captain flew straight and true. After this harrowing ride, the captain delivered Akane to the top of the cliffs, a ledge that overlooked Jusenkyō…or rather, what the Sorcerers would allow others to see: an illusory countryside, one that fooled both mind and heart.

"Tell me the truth," said Akane, standing on her own two feet again. "Why did Kohl let me go? Do you even know?"

"You're the ones who made us your enemy," said Wuya. "We have no quarrel with you. We will defend ourselves against you if we must, but what we need doesn't come from you. You can have Saotome Ranma after we're done with him."

"And I'm just supposed to accept that?"

Wuya scowled. "As I said, we have no quarrel with you. There has been death on both sides, and all of it needless." She met Akane's gaze. "Take that message back to the Riverfolk. We _will_ defend ourselves." She ripped a weed from the rock; it turned to soot in her hands. "And we _will_ kill if we must."

"Fine," said Akane. "I'll tell them what you said, but even if they don't have the stomach for it, you're holding Ranma against his will. I won't stop coming for him."

"No," said Wuya, turning her back to leave. "I expect you won't."

"And you tell Kohl this doesn't make up for anything."

"No. I expect it doesn't."

Wuya jumped, floating off toward the spring ground, and once she passed through the barrier of the Maze, she too disappeared.

Akane sighed, sitting on hard rock. _So that's how it is. Now we go back and try to rescue Ranma again._

Yet for all the force of will she expressed to Wuya, Akane could only close her eyes as if to sleep. Her head throbbed. Her ribs ached with each breath.

_I don't mind the pain if it's for you, Ranma, but that doesn't mean it's not hard to bear._

There was a rustling in the brush. Voices approached. "I could swear I heard someone," said a voice in a distinctly Kansai accent.

"I think it was more to the right," said Ryōga.

"You moron!" said Ukyō. "That's off the side of the cliff!"

Akane smiled. _Familiar voices. That's good. It's good that some of us, at least, have escaped. That some of us are alive._

She opened her eyes, and the level forest—the mirage of forest where Mount Kensei should've been—spread for as far as the eye could see.

_But it's not enough until Ranma's back, too. It's not enough until I get him back, until I say that I'm sorry._

She rose and called out to Ryōga and Ukyō, and as old friends reunited, Akane turned her back on the demons of Jusenkyō and the monsters slain there.

The monsters that look out at us from mirrors.

The monsters that lie dormant within our souls.

_**Identity**_** 04 End**

* * *

**Next:** The battle for Jusenkyō may have been lost, war against the Sorcerers is far from over. With the taking of Saffron as their ultimate objective, the Sorcerers regroup and prepare for their assault, and the Amazons and Ranma are ready to throw every wrench they've got into the works. **The race to meet the Sorcerers at Mount Phoenix begins with the fifth chapter of **_**Identity**_** - "Ashes" - Coming in two weeks: August 6, 2010.**

In the meantime, feel free to download _Identity_ in PDF from the Scribd link in my profile, or visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com for commentary on this chapter and others. All commentaries are also linked on my profile. Your reviews on this installment or the story as a whole are appreciated. I try to respond to every review, so I welcome any feedback or criticism. I very much want to improve my writing and craft a story that is as enjoyable to read as it is to write, so if you've read the story so far and are reading this, I thank you, and I look forward to returning in two weeks to continue the story with "Ashes."


	27. Ashes: Prelude

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** The Sorcerers' quest to take Saffron is a war of subterfuge as much as magic and arrows. With the right planting of misinformation, your enemies can be captured without a shot.

* * *

**Ashes**

_A chapter in five acts_

"Twenty-four hours in a day," said Kohl, shivering. "Twenty-four hours in a day, nearly twelve of sunlight and twelve of darkness. So many hours to pick from. So many moments to choose a time to meet."

On the horizon, sun's edge poked over the distant mountains.

"They _had_ to pick dawn." His teeth chattered. "Always dawn. When should we attack? Dawn. When should we head for the village? Dawn. When should we meet with our enemies to deceive them into a truce? Naturally, dawn."

"You never liked mornings," said his companion. A boy he was, with short, light hair. Pale was his complexion, but it warmed as golden hues lit up the countryside.

Kohl scoffed. "And you do, Tilaka?"

"I admit I don't. When the village would awaken, it was a burden to me, but no more than to feel the dreams of hundreds." He paused. "Do you think dreams reflect what we desire, Kohl?"

"Perhaps."

A breeze kicked up. If wind could be psychic, this one was. It knew every gap in Kohl's clothing, sapping the heat straight from his skin. His hair floated and whipped in the breeze, for Kohl had come out that morning as a girl.

"This body is too thin-skinned." Kohl cupped his hands, and a ball of fire formed in the open space.

"That's dangerous," said Tilaka.

Bathing in the warmth of his miniature fire, Kohl relaxed. "If we can't use magic to endure the elements, what good is any of it?"

"Perhaps not much good at all."

"Perhaps not." He lit a fallen tree branch and held it like a staff with a flame on the end. The fire needed no more of his magic to sustain itself. "Are you sure you wish to stay?" asked Kohl.

"We've come this far," said Tilaka, admiring the sunrise.

"That's not what I asked."

For once, the dour boy cracked a small smile. "The captain seeks the Sieve's replacement. It's only fitting that the Sieve be there to oversee the changing of the guard."

"You don't need to be here for this."

" 'Need to'? No. But I choose to."

Kohl smirked. "So be it, then. I don't expect trouble, but we should be cautious."

"I'll stand behind you," said Tilaka.

"That's good."

"So any arrows meant for me will have to pass through you first."

Kohl frowned.

"That was a joke." said Tilaka.

"A joke, huh?" Kohl narrowed his eyes. "When they said I could bring a second to ensure my safety, I expected she wouldn't use my body as a shield."

"Only if they start shooting at us."

"Yes, yes," said Kohl. "Very reassuring."

A long shadow passed over them. Circling in the sky, a human form with a pair of wings spiraled and descended.

"Well," said Kohl, "let us see if the enemy holds to their bargain."

"You're not," said Tilaka.

"Which is why I expect treachery. I'd use this exchange toward my own ends if I were they," said Kohl. "That is, if I were captain of the Phoenix."

The sun cleared the eastern horizon, and the mountain before Kohl and Tilaka shone with full splendor: a rocky spire it was, steep and narrow, towering into the sky. Grand staircases and homes clung to the mountainside, as if carved directly from stone. Daylight broke over Mount Phoenix, and in the plains around it, all was quiet, save for Kohl, Tilaka, and their visitor from the clan of bird-men.

The Phoenix tribesman swooped before them, landing on his own two feet. "You're the representatives of the Sorcerers?" he said.

"We are," said Kohl. "I am called Wuya. This is my second."

"I'm Masala," said the Phoenix tribesman. "I serve Captain Keema and Lord Saffron. I'm to represent them now for this agreement."

"Curious. I had thought Keema herself would finalize the negotiations with me."

"Captain Keema is very, very busy!" said Masala. "She asked me to take care of this, so you'll deal with me!"

"Very well. We—"

Masala tugged on his collar and peered down his own shirt, feeling down the gap.

"_What_ are you doing?" said Kohl.

"I know it must be somewhere…"

"What must be somewhere?"

"The scroll! Captain Keema said I shouldn't say anything other than what's written on the scroll!" Masala twitched. "I guess I shouldn't have said that."

"Your captain doesn't seem to be so busy as to let you go without a script," said Kohl.

"That's not it at all! She—" Masala fished out a piece of rolled parchment. "Here it is. Can I start now?"

"Please," said Kohl. "Before dusk would be preferable."

"All right. Captain Keema wishes to express that Lord Saffron's people have no interest in any war between the Amazons and the Sorcerers. To that end, the Amazon prisoners we've taken will be released to the Sorcerers, provided that all Sorcerer forces in the vicinity of our mountain leave in peace."

"The terms are acceptable," said Kohl. "Where are the prisoners?"

"Captain Keema wants you to sign and show that you agree to the terms."

"I will sign nothing until I see the prisoners."

"But, but, she wants you to sign…"

Groaning, Kohl took up the feather pen and hurriedly put down the strokes of his captain's name on the parchment.

"Oh, so just like the crow!" said Masala. "Does that mean you turn into a crow? Or just that you can fly—"

"The prisoners!"

"All right, all right!" Signed parchment in hand, Masala took off for the mountain. "Honestly, you're worse than the captain!"

Kohl growled. "This'd better be worth it."

He would know soon enough. From a cavernous entrance at the base of the mountain, the Phoenix marched out their prisoners. Iron shackles bound their hands and chained them together at the ankles.

Cologne, on the end, trudged forth on her stubby legs. Ukyō, at her side, dragged her feet without her trusty spatula. Shampoo, Mousse, Konatsu, Ryōga—they were all there.

And in the center of the chain gang walked Akane, eyes forward in a cold, determined stare.

"Well," said Kohl, muttering under his breath, "this seems familiar."

"You know these people?" asked Tilaka.

Kohl met Akane's gaze, but the girl before him gave no reaction.

"Some more than others." Kohl sighed. "No matter. We can accept these prisoners and hold them at camp. Without the Riverfolk to aid them, the Phoenix will fall before us, and Saffron will be the Sieve."

And so, the courses of the three great tribes were set. Bound together through magic and war, the Sorcerers, Amazons, and Phoenix met on the rocky plains in the shadow of a mountain, where in a simple exchange, the fates of all three would be decided—and the quest to take Saffron won or lost.

This isn't the story of the battle that would yet come—that is for later. But between the Sorcerers' reclaiming of Jusenkyō and their march upon Mount Phoenix, there is indeed much to tell. We start not with the Amazons and their tired, weary hike back to their village, mired as much in mud as defeat. Nor do we begin with the Phoenix, who cloistered themselves in their mountain until word of the coming war arrived. Nay, we start with the one person who wished to be in the mountain's shadow that day but wasn't—the only man to wield the Sorcerers' magic against them, the only outsider to have killed a Sorcerer in nearly twenty years. And though some might suspect, no one—not even he—could realize yet how pivotal to this affair he was.

His name was Saotome Ranma, and it is with his story that we shall begin.

* * *

**Next:** An ally among the Sorcerers presents to Ranma a bold plan—a means to contact the Amazons and alert them to the true danger the Sorcerers pose, but to pull it off, Ranma must infiltrate Sindoor's tower and uncover the secret ritual within. **The quest to stop the Sorcerers continues with "Ashes" Part I - "Night of Magic's Coupling" - Coming August 13, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	28. Ashes I: Night of Magic's Coupling

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** A strange ally among the Sorcerers offers Ranma a way to contact the outside.

* * *

**Night of Magic's Coupling**

_Chapter Five, Act One_

In the tower by the waterfall, the Sorcerer's Den, there are many levels. At the base lies the Lady's hall, where she holds her court and conducts the business of the tribe, and her private chambers, a domain all her own. At the top, the Sieve meditates in darkness—or he would, if he could subjugate his own will and listen to the thoughts and feelings of his countrymen and not his own heart. In between, the channelers hum, with running water to block out all other sounds that might distract.

And, for one day, among shelves of scrolls and parchments a girl sat, reading at a table by the window.

"All right," said Ranma, dusting off a scroll. "Either this says, 'The sacred spring gets its source from Jusenkyō,' or it really means, 'The monkey rode the dog all the way up the mountain.' " He cursed under his breath. "I really should've learned some Chinese."

Drumming his fingers on the table, he looked to the hollow doorway, where four armed Sorcerers stood, staves at their sides.

"Don't suppose one of you guys wants to help me translate?" he said.

The guards glared.

"You know, when I get out of here, make sure Wuya tells Sindoor she screwed up again."

The guards glared.

"Che." Ranma leaned over the scroll, running his fingers over the dried ink. "Something in this chicken-scratch has to make sense."

But sense was an elusive thing for Ranma. Two days had passed since the Battle of Jusenkyō, and Ranma had yet to make sense of any of that disaster. From the crazed, psychotic Henna to his own momentous surge of power, none of it fit. As the Sorcerers bound him and brought him back to their village, Ranma had only questions, and his answers eluded him, hiding in plain Chinese.

He sighed. _At least I'm the only one they brought back. Shampoo, Ucchan, Akane—you guys are safe, right? _

Safe if he thought they weren't being held at Jusenkyō, anyway.

_No. They got out. I'm sure of it._

His hands trembled, smearing the ink on the scroll.

_I gave up too much for them not to get out._

Captive again. Captive to the Sorcerers, and this time, they knew him to be a threat. Guards watched him bathe. Guards watched him eat and sleep. Not like they could prove he killed anybody. Even if they found Henna's body, all they'd see was a group of holes in her chest with no murder weapon. Even when he battled the Sorcerers' reinforcements, he merely hurt them. He killed no one, lucky for them.

_But I would've. I didn't hold back._

He shook off the thought, instead glancing out the window. Outside, the Sorcerer Guard trained, gearing for war. The march on Mount Phoenix drew near. Soon enough, based on Ranma's lies, the Sorcerers would attack Saffron's kin, and if that battle were anything like what happened at Jusenkyō, Ranma was certain: there would be destruction. There would be death.

There would be blood. And now that Cologne had learned from him the Sorcerers' plans, his friends would join the fray. Shampoo, with her warrior's pride and courage. Ukyō, with her gritty determination.

And Akane. Brave, foolish Akane, who no doubt thought she'd dismantle the Sorcerers with her own two hands, but she'd never consider, not even for an instant, how much it might hurt.

_There's got to be some way to stop this madness,_ thought Ranma. _Some secret about the Sieve, some loophole._

He eyed the guards. Two men, two women. No, that was wrong: two _boys_ and two _girls_. They still had the look of youth about them. In his reckoning, they weren't more than two or three years older than he.

Even Henna was young. Young and beautiful, save when rage twisted her face into a frenzied scowl. She loathed a body she was trapped in, a body the "sacred" spring gave her.

_That man who caved in the tunnels when the Amazons were chasing me, the priest who tranqed me, who I never saw again—that was Henna, too, wasn't it? _

"The Sorcerer Guard—they are hypocrites," Henna had said. "They use the bodies they pretend to loathe."

Ranma rolled up the parchment. _What the hell are these people? Why would they do this to themselves? _

He glanced out the window once more, where below, the Sorcerer Guard practiced their magic on the terraces of the spire.

_Whatever the reason, it sure ain't here._

Shelving the books and scrolls he'd collected, Ranma stormed from the library. Even if he escaped these people somehow, managed to steal his freedom, the Sorcerers wouldn't stop their quest for the next Sieve. These people were driven, compelled.

They were mad. When Henna doused her Amazon prisoner in that horrific mixture of curse water, the madness shone from her eyes.

It was a madness that refused to be snuffed out, that burned and burned until there was nothing human left.

_And anyone who stares into that fiery abyss turns to dust._

So he treaded down the spiral staircase, gazing into the black bowels of the tower and the corrupted soul of the village beyond.

#

"So, you know what happens when you douse yourself in hot water, right?"

Midday at the bazaar, the Sorcerers' marketplace. Artisans and merchants showcased their wares to their fellow villagers here: woven baskets, shafts for wagons and carts. Just half a kilometer downriver, the rapids frothed and flowed over cliff's edge. In Ranma's thinking, it was certainly a logical place to put a market: it was the last stop for any villager on the way to Sindoor's grand palace and the first stop for the Guard to arm themselves on the way to make war.

So Ranma guessed, if he were to judge the massive presence of the Sorcerer Guard at the bazaar that day, whose members browsed the stands for arms and tools.

"That's pretty sad, don't you think?" said Ranma, calling out to his escort. "Sindoor won't even buy you proper weapons. She makes you go out and get them yourselves. How does that make you feel? You know, if I were you guys, I'd campaign for a raise."

The guards planted their staves in the dirt, two upriver, two down, leaving nowhere for Ranma to run.

"So," said Ranma, turning to a shopkeeper once more, "you know you were born a man, right?"

The woman hammered on the shaft of a garden hoe, driving the end of the stick into a hole in the iron blade.

"When you were a baby, Sindoor and her people took you and doused you in the spring," said Ranma. "They took your manhood from you. Doesn't that make you angry?"

The stick snapped, showering the ground in splinters. The shopkeeper muttered something to herself—a curse, perhaps, for her own clumsiness? —and tossed the broken halves of the shaft aside.

"You don't trust me? Fine. Get some hot water for yourself. It doesn't take a lot. Just enough for a bowl of soup. That's all it takes."

The shopkeeper felt under her stand. A new shaft in hand, she went back to her work.

"You don't understand a word I'm saying, do you."

A woman from an adjacent stand laughed to herself.

"What?" Ranma trotted down the line of artisans. This too was a woman shopkeeper, one who braided rope with her bare hands. "What's so funny?"

"If we had enough hot water to make soup, we wouldn't waste it on an outsider's lies. _We would make soup._"

Ranma narrowed his eyes. "You guys's soup sucks."

"You waste your breath here, outsider."

"Is that right. Maybe you like being a woman?"

"I don't know what misguided rumor you've heard about us," said the rope-maker, "but you'd best be silent before you make more of a fool of yourself."

"So the spring down by the tower—"

"Blesses us with restraint," said the rope-maker. "Just as the Sieve does."

Ranma smirked. Already his excursion into the village had proved useful. Maybe to the Sorcerer Guard it would look like he was trying to foster dissent, but in truth, Ranma's goals were much more modest. To defeat an enemy required understanding. To understand an enemy required facts. As much as Henna had told him in the minutes before she died, she always spoke in riddles, but now Ranma had something to go on. Either these people were in denial, told to put out of their minds anything Ranma said…

Or they didn't even know they were cursed at all. Not all of them, anyway. Henna knew. The priests knew. Only they and the Guard could show their birth bodies. Only they needed such forms to do the impossible with magic.

Even Ranma felt it. Though ice crystallized at his fingertips whenever he wanted, a few ice spikes were a far cry from what he managed at the foot of the mountain, against a hundred of the Sorcerers' finest. He froze the ground for as far as the eye could see. And he did it as a guy.

_I couldn't feel Herb when he was a girl, but…_ He eyed the guards of his escort. _Them I feel._ He looked to the rope-maker. _Her I don't._

"You have a reason to stay here?" The rope-maker shot him an intense, withering stare, keeping her eyes on him as she braided three strands of rope together. "You have more foolish tales, perhaps?"

Ranma scoffed. "No, I think I'm good for now. Have fun selling your rope, old bat. I hope they don't snap while one of your people is scaling a cliff or something."

"Wait."

Ranma glanced over his shoulder. "What?"

"That foolishness about the spring—where did you hear of it?"

"Where? What does it matter? Or better yet, give me a good reason why I should tell you."

"There are many stories about the sacred spring," she said. "Legends, they are, of how the spring came to be infused with magic. The popular version tells of a prince and a foreign princess, who married to bring peace between the tribes. The princess, though kind and powerful in her own right, had no love for her husband. She strayed. She lay with the prince's brother and took him into her bed, but even so, the prince's brother grew jealous. The stories differ as to why. For the tile of Lord that the elder brother would wield when their mother passed? Or for the woman whom the younger could touch and lie with yet never call a wife? Who can say. No one even knows how long ago that was."

"So?" said Ranma. "What ended up happening?"

"One day, the prince confronted his younger brother, and the princess, though shamed by her sin, recovered her duty, her loyalty. She stood by her husband. She betrayed her lover by abandoning his side. The elder son promised their mother would banish him from the village for seducing the princess and jeopardizing the order of succession, the rule of law.

"And that's why, at night, the younger son murdered his brother, and when the princess came to her husband's defense, the younger son slew her, too. Lest the bodies ever be discovered, he drowned them both in the spring. But guilt soon took the younger prince's heart, and he could think of nothing else but to drown in the pool as well. Since then, it is said the spring is blessed. Not with the elaborate forms of other springs—rather, we receive the spring's blessing so that we won't make the same mistake again." The rope-maker bound three thick strands together with thin line in a whipping knot, finishing the yarn. "So we can kill the passion in our hearts and save ourselves from the depths of sin."

Ranma leaned forward, whispering. "I get the feeling you're not telling me all this just to entertain me."

"It's a popular story."

"Yeah, it's as good as the one where everybody turns into orange juice and the end and dies," said Ranma. "Or better, the one where the farmer takes in a snake from the cold, and the snake bites him for his trouble."

The rope-maker ignored his remarks, fetching some small threads to begin anew. "Even with the blessing of the spring, we're still susceptible to sin. We require the Sieve to keep us in check, and even then, all that does is limit our magic."

"I don't see how that's my problem."

"You don't?" The braider scoffed. "You, Saotome Ranma, who remains here only to help us find the next Sieve, do not see how it would be convenient if we had no need of a Sieve at all?"

"You speak awfully plainly about something I imagine should get you shot," said Ranma.

"Few common villagers know your language, outsider," said the rope-maker. "But all the Sorcerers of the Guard do."

"You're a member of the Sorcerer Guard?"

"Perhaps."

"Bullshit. Don't play games with me."

The rope-maker glanced in both directions. "You're making your escort suspicious."

Sure enough, the two pairs of Guardsmen moved in—perhaps they wondered what their prisoner would want with a simple rope-maker for all this time?

"Yeah, well, I don't exactly have the option to ditch them," said Ranma.

"Orders get confused all the time. A group of four can be told they'll be relieved and shouldn't wait for the next watch."

Ranma frowned. "You can do this?"

"Tonight. There'll be a ritual. Most of the Guard will be out, not participating but in attendance."

"Another baptism at the spring?"

"No," said the rope-maker. "Tonight is the night of Magic's Coupling."

#

Whatever "Magic's Coupling" was, it sure had the Sorcerers in a tizzy. All afternoon, envoys from Sindoor's tower scoured the village, tracking down every last resident of proper age. They doled out slips of parchment, one to each citizen, and when a cluster of huts was finished, the envoys moved on to the next.

But to Ranma, who paced in the shade of his hut, watching through the open doorway, one thing struck him above all else.

The envoys had _two_ sets of papers: one for women, one for men.

_Just what are these people up to? _

Despite some curiosity, however, Ranma looked upon the unfolding ritual with only mild interest. What these people for fun on a night like this he hesitated to think of. The chance that he might have an ally among the Sorcerer Guard—that was much more intriguing to him.

_It means they're not monolithic robots,_ he thought. _I guess, for the list of possible curses that spring of theirs, we can cross off 'Spring of Absolute Obedience.' How comforting._

Afternoon turned to dusk, and Sindoor's envoys stationed themselves about the village, calling in unison to the residents. The villagers checked their papers and precessed downriver—by torch, later on, as the night overcame them.

And sure enough, as the rope-maker said, Ranma's guards abandoned their posts to help with the ceremony, leaving him unguarded and alone, save for a voice in the dark.

"You see, outsider?" said a voice through the wall. The rope-maker pried apart the straw of Ranma's hut, whispering inside. "I keep my promises."

"I guess you do." Ranma sat back, lowering his voice. Better to keep close to his would-be ally. Anyone who walked past might hear him talking if he did so from a distance. Even knowing he was speaking to someone could raise suspicion. "So, what's the plan? You can bust me out of here, right? Walk me through the Maze?"

"And openly show the Lady that we exist to defy her?" The rope-maker scoffed. "You are a fool."

"If you're not here to help me out, there ain't a whole lot more I care to discuss."

The rope-maker scowled. "Even if you escaped, Sindoor and Wuya will still strike at the Phoenix and attempt to capture Saffron."

"Your point?"

"It will be a massacre if the Phoenix are caught unaware, but there may be a way to warn them." She wedged a brown, leathery pouch through the gaps in the straw. "Do you know what this is?"

Ranma pulled the drawstring, revealing traces of a fine white powder. "This is that stuff," he said. "The stuff Henna—" He flinched. "The stuff you guys use to talk to each other, even when you're far away."

"I know no one from the outside who I can touch with my mind," said the rope-maker. "No one who could warn the Phoenix of this turn. But, perhaps you do?"

Ranma frowned. He'd already told Cologne enough about what the Sorcerers meant to do. If they got out, if they listened to him, the Phoenix should know by then, too.

But this rope-maker, whoever she was, didn't need to know that. After all, he had a pouch of magic pixie dust in his hands. As long as he knew someone outside, someone whose soul he would recognize, did it really matter what he had to say?

There was more to say about the Sorcerers and their plans, to be sure, but something else yet nagged at his mind.

_Akane,_ he thought. _Did you make it out? _

"Outsider!" hissed the rope-maker. "Do you hear what I say?"

"Come again?"

"The dust's distribution is tightly controlled," said the rope-maker. "Even I can't procure any if I'm not supposed to leave the village. You will need to get more from the source."

"And what source is that?"

"The supply of vision dust is small, but what little we have comes from a laboratory beneath the tower, where the plants that make up the powder are ground. A store room houses the rest. It is kept in barrels; it is constantly under guard. Take the pouch, steal what you can, and then light a fire to burn it, so you can contact whomever you wish."

"And what makes you think I can steal this stuff when you can't even take it yourself?"

"Are you the outsider who used our magic against us at the spring ground? Are you the outsider who snuck into the Lady's tower and cornered the channelers alone? Are you telling me you can't do this?"

"Sounds like I've got a fan. Sorry if I don't give you an autograph; I don't have a pen."

"If this weren't convenient for me, I would kill you myself."

"All right, not a fan. Stalker, then."

"But I saw what you did at the spring ground. Before, I wouldn't have thought it possible, but what you did—how you fought us off—it only confirmed what I already knew. Everything we do to contain our capacity for sin only makes us weaker. If we couldn't obliterate an untrained outsider, what good is our magic? What good are the rituals and blessings we go through if they merely limit our power?"

"So what?" said Ranma. "You want to overthrow Sindoor? Be my guest. You don't want to be freaks? I got no problem with that."

"It is not merely our bodies that make us aberrations," said the rope-maker.

"What then?"

"You see where all the villagers are going? They make for the tower. Below the lab I spoke of, they will meet. The Lady's men have given each villager a numbered parchment. Only their partner for this week may meet with them there."

"Partners for what?"

"See for yourself," said the rope-maker. "See what the Lady makes us do in bodies we weren't meant to have."

A twig snapped outside. The gap in the straw shut.

Ranma sighed. _I must have a sign on my back or something. 'Japanese martial artist for hire. Competitive rates. Specialties in overthrowing Chinese kingdoms and Phoenix slaying. Inquire within for details.'_

He picked himself up. _Can't be helped, I guess._ He peered left and right through the open doorway and ventured into the night.

#

The envoys of Sindoor ordered the villagers downriver in groups: men first, then the women, alternating in blocks of twenty, to Ranma's count. In the gap between two groups, Ranma shuffled down the cliffside trail, shielding himself from the spray of the waterfall. He did so in darkness, for the light of a torch would give him away.

The Sorcerers at the base of the waterfall escorted their kin not through the front gate but to two side entrances, leading them down trap door staircases that burrowed into the earth.

_Interesting. They don't want them going near Sindoor's chambers, maybe? _

Far from any gate into the palace grounds, Ranma trudged over loose dirt, crawling toward the spire. This mess was his doing, after all—he was the one who shattered the outer fortifications. As he made his way inward, he found the rings in various states of repair: the outer ones had yet to have their walls even dug out from rubble, while the inmost levels were already reconstructed, save with bare dirt instead of neatly trimmed grass. At the center of the grounds, two guards flanked the main doors to the tower, where villagers through with the ceremony left in two columns.

_Works for me. If you guys want to leave the front door open, I'll walk right through it._

He approached from the side, scaling the slick, smooth exterior of the tower. An attack from the front they would expect. From above? Not so much.

_Better if they don't even know I was here, though._

He clung to the side of the tower, watching, waiting. Groups of villagers departed below him, and when he spotted a break in the line, he stuck out his fingers—all that he could spare while maintaining his grip—and let the ice gather at his fingertips.

Tink. An ice spike speared the last villager of the precession. He fell to the dirt, and blood spurted from his leg. His comrades in line rushed to his aid, and the guards by the double doors left their posts to help him as well.

_Don't worry; you'll live. If I'd killed you, they'd be looking for me right now instead of tending to you._ Ranma swung into the tower, disappearing in the shadows as commotion unfolded just a few meters away.

He made for the spiral stairwell and crept into the dark underground chambers of the tower.

The lab—so Ranma assumed—had an open doorway, like all the others in the tower, but that didn't mean it was unguarded. Two guards hovered by the doorway. Three pairs more blocked access to the stone tables, on which beakers and flasks collected dripping fluids.

_Definitely a lab, just like Henna's._

A burning odor poured from the lab, stinging his eyes. Ranma pinched his nose. Clinging to the ceiling, he flicked a pebble down the staircase—a brief distraction, but enough to grant him passage through the top of the doorway while the guards looked away.

_First basement level: multivitamins, home cleaning supplies, crystal meth…_

He wiped a tear from his cheek and damped his aura, sneaking past the guards. In principle, he could swipe whatever he wanted—floorboards, for example, or a dinner table clean out from under the people eating at it. Let no one mistake: Saotome Genma had designed a truly crafty art, and it served Ranma well here. This time, he didn't need to get away with much—just a pouch of vision dust would do, and Ranma quickly found what he needed: a cracked barrel spilled dust on the floor, and in the shadows of torchlight, Ranma swept the loose dust into his leathery bag.

_Piece of cake._ He tied the bag shut and stepped forward.

Creak.

_You've got to be kidding me. Do I need new shoes or something? _ He leapt to a ceiling corner, pressing both hands to the wall to keep himself still.

A Sorcerer trotted to the row of barrels, peering about.

_No, I'm not stealing your crack. I'm not the outsider you're looking for. You can go about your business._

The Sorcerer drew his battle staff.

_Dammit. I guess mind tricks don't work on you guys. No chance of staying hidden then. Let's play with sticks._ He leapt away, curling his fingers over open space, and ice formed in the gap. A staff of ice he wielded, one that grew and shaped itself to his will.

_Now look who's staff is bigger, huh? _

Crunch. The end of the ice staff punched a Sorcerer in the chest.

_And we ain't even started yet! _

Shouts and cries echoed through the tower: the shouts of Sorcerers meant to alarm their comrades, the cries of the fallen as Ranma swatted them away. Ice bashed against flesh and shattered. The Sorcerers flew.

Or rather, they hurtled, crashing through stone walls.

Fighting his way to the staircase, Ranma tossed aside his frozen staff. He pressed his hand to the door, sealing the gap in an ice sheet.

_That takes care of you guys._

Footsteps. The Sorcerers of the Guard raced down the tower, crowding the stairwell from above.

_Not getting out that way. Where can I go? _

He looked down, to the flickering torchlight below.

_That's right. There's another way in. And out._

He dashed around the center column, descending the stair. In the second basement level of the tower, curtains closed off separate rooms. The Sorcerers of the Guard stationed themselves at regular intervals along a narrow central corridor, with torches flaring at their backs.

They were his targets.

_No better way to disappear than in the black._ Clinging to the edge of the doorway, just out of sight, Ranma extended his palm into the gap. Ice had been his weapon of choice thus far, ever since he started wielding Sorcerers' magic. It wouldn't fail him here.

From his outstretched fingers, thin, transparent tethers of snowflakes shot out, binding him to the torches inside.

And at the end of the hall, Captain Wuya snapped to attention, eyeing the lines of snow.

_Now! _

A whoosh. The torches went out.

In pitch dark, as shouts, muffled screams, and hushed whispers took the room, Ranma leapt into the black. He shimmied up a stone dividing wall edge-on—a structure more like a partition between changing rooms or stalls than an actual wall—and in the space between the top and the ceiling, he crouched, hiding where shadows would be soon enough.

A light, faint and flickering. In the room's center corridor, Captain Wuya floated a ball of fire over her hand. The flame showed the truth of things in the ritual chambers that night:

It showed torches encased in blocks of ice, their flames snuffed out.

It showed curtains tangled and even torn from their stringing poles, for the villagers, without magic, had stumbled in the dark to find themselves.

It showed a dozen or more divided stalls, in which the villagers paired off, two-by-two, and left their robes and tunics strewn about the stone floor.

_Oh gods._

Ranma put his back to the side wall. He shut his eyes, slowed his breathing. Maybe, if someone looked straight at him, they would see, but with Wuya's small light in the room's center, only shadows touched him, and by no means would he let even a hint of his aura reach the Captain of the Guard. To all eyes, magical or otherwise, he was invisible, but he was in place to see more than he wanted.

The Sorcerer Guard scoured the ritual chambers and the stairwell, but after a fashion, they let the villagers proceed unhindered.

And proceed they did. Unwilling to move from his hiding place, Ranma learned the sequence of the ritual down to the last detail.

When all the couples in the room were done, the Sorcerer Guard emptied the stalls and escorted the next groups inside. Men they allocated first, one to each cell, and closed the curtain so no one would be seen. Each man presented a slip of paper, the same as the one the envoys had given them earlier, with one set of characters in large writing and another, smaller set of glyphs at paper's edge. Though Ranma couldn't read Chinese, he knew the large set of characters well enough from grade school.

After all, every Japanese kid his age should know how to count.

The Sorcerer Guard detached the other set of symbols—names, Ranma guessed, and slid the papers into gaps in the divider walls, so only the numbers would show.

That's when the women would be brought in to pass by the cells, to check the number of their own slips against the ones beside each curtain.

_So they know where to go. So they know what guy they've been _assigned_ tonight._

It was then that they'd consummate the ritual, but the act was very brief. From Ranma's perch above the stalls, he saw clearly what they did, and it disgusted him, but more unnerving to his mind was what they didn't do.

A man's lips avoided his partner's. His eyes stared at the curtain rather than meet her gaze. They breathed heavily, but they never spoke. Not even a groan of exertion escaped them. Not for any of the couples he watched that night.

_They're like cattle. They're marched in , they do their business, and they go. They're numbers._

"See for yourself," the rope-maker had said. "See what the Lady makes us do in bodies we weren't meant to have."

A cold sweat broke over Ranma's brow. _Is that why Sindoor has to pen them in here? Because any other way, they __would feel—they would _know_ something wasn't right, wouldn't they? _

He touched his shirt, feeling the nipple and the soft flesh beneath.

_They would know their bodies were wrong._

Clack-clack. The Sorcerers of the Guard banged their staves against the stone, and the villagers hurriedly dressed themselves. In five minutes' time, this group had completed their duty to the tribe and left via the main staircase. The Guard cleared the cells, and from a hidden door in the back, the next group of men marched in, numbered slips in hand, to be allocated cells of their own before the ladies arrived.

And all night Ranma waited there, round after round, until all the village had lain in those chambers, until the Sorcerers of the Guard themselves extinguished the last torch and left him in the dark of night. Blindly he felt his way through the chambers until he felt upon one of the back doors. It was only by way of these secret passages, the ones the Sorcerers used to bring men and women into the Chambers of Magic's Coupling, that Ranma escaped. Under moon and starlight, Ranma made his way off the tower grounds and slunk to the tree line, putting his mind only to the task before him:

He needed a fire to burn the vision dust, so he collected straight twigs, flat pieces of bark, and dry grass to serve as kindling. With rock and fingernails, he shaped the twig to come to a point and ground the point into the bark fragment, turning the shaft back and forth with his palms. The wood cut and chafed his skin, but he didn't care. Pain kept him in the present. It forced his mind to the here and now, to the glowing charcoal in the bark, to lighting his tinder there so he could enjoy the gift of flame.

It kept him from wandering back in his memory, from going back to that room.

He needed water, too. Hot water, at that. Henna, at least, thought hot water would make his magic stronger, but that was more convenient than anything else. Even if he had to go back to his girl body in the morning, he wouldn't spend another minute in this cursed skin. To think of what Sindoor forced her people to do, in flesh as cursed as his…

He stuffed the vision dust into his pocket and filled the leathery bag with river water. The flames charred the bottom, but Ranma dangled the pouch high over them, and over time, the water warmed. He doused himself in the water, and though new eyes, he looked upon the village, on the tower that half-shone in moonlight, on the huts at the top of the waterfall, where no light reached.

Maybe it was his own disgust creeping through, but looking on this place, he felt as if the burdens of a thousand souls weighed on him. Perhaps some among the Sorcerers enjoyed what had transpired that night. They might consider it necessary or wise, but that was their delusion. All Ranma knew was the icy chill on his skin, the feeling that, though hundreds of souls slept in this valley, nearly all of them had passed through the Chambers of Magic's Coupling without love or even lust in their eyes. They were dead to passion, inside and out, just the way Sindoor wanted.

_It ain't enough to get out of here anymore._

Ranma emptied the leathery bag, filling it with vision dust from his pockets one handful at a time.

_It ain't enough even to just stop them from getting a new Sieve. whether that's Saffron or someone else—it doesn't matter. None of it matters._

He sat cross-legged before the fire. He inhaled and exhaled, steadying his heart to a slow, controlled rhythm.

_Someone has to know what they're doing. These freaks need to be stopped._

With a fist of vision dust prepared, Ranma held his hand over the fire, holding his fingers tightly together, so only a few grains of powder could escape at a time. The truth of his heart stalled him there, for he too had been afraid of passion before. Nay, it still frightened him to that day, but unlike these Sorcerers, he would bear the risk. Someone had to be told about these people, and if _she_ refused to hear him, so be it.

He opened his fist, and the dust fell into the fire, erupting in a burst of flame.

_Akane…_

* * *

**Next:** Having received Ranma's warning, Akane and the Amazons send a delegation to the Phoenix, but old wounds still burn in Saffron's domain, and any peace between the Phoenix captain and the people who slew her lord will be tense indeed. **The countdown to battle at Mount Phoenix continues in "Ashes" Part II - "The Message" - Coming August 20, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	29. Ashes II: The Message

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** Shampoo, Ukyō, and Akane left Jusenkyō in defeat, knowing only that the Sorcerers sought Saffron but little else. Now, as they try to convince the Phoenix to accept their aid, it will take no small dose of magic to get the truth out and earn a bit of reconciliation between two people—and two tribes—that have wronged each other so.

* * *

**The Message**

_Chapter Five, Act Two_

"And so, this entirely inexperienced, _green_ lieutenant from the PLA, fresh off his first appointment to the military, rides into the village with the next batch of trainees to 'learn the secrets of the mystical River people,' and what does he do just five minutes after arriving?" Elder Surma tapped her chopsticks on the edge of her bowl. "He propositions my daughter!"

Sipping soup from a spoon, Cologne cracked an amused grin. "As I recall, he propositioned _my_ granddaughter first!"

Around low dinner table in Shampoo's childhood home, the Nerima party helped themselves to rice noodles and chicken broth. The journey back to the Amazon village had been tiresome indeed, and it was long past time that they had a decent meal.

"Yes, well, that one was quite a character," said Surma, pouring herself another cup of tea. "No one was safe from his advances. I dare say I wondered if he meant to proposition me as well!"

"You'd have liked that," said Cologne. "Young blood always suited you."

"Teacher, please. It was 1952. I wasn't nearly so wrinkled then."

"Not on your face, perhaps."

Surma wisely ignored this remark. "At any rate, we had the PLA lieutenant bouncing about the village in no time, for as soon as one girl catapulted him to the sky with a Heaven Blast, he just came back down looking for more. I can't help but wonder if he enjoyed that punishment."

"There _are_ people like that, you know," said Cologne.

"You would know."

The two elders erupted in laughter. The other guests in attendance, all two or three generations removed from the pair, exchanged awkward glances. Even so, the mood was light in the house that day. Ryōga and Mousse talked over hidden weapons and ki techniques. Shampoo lent Ukyō a sample of freshly-made nail polish, glossing over how the Amazons used egg whites and beeswax to make the cosmetic. For a group of exhausted warriors, this respite was well-deserved, but to one of their number, this casual chatter faded into the background, until there was only her heartbeat left.

_Ranma…_

Akane glanced to her bowl of soup. Spots of oil swirled on the surface. Ripples of broth lapped at the bowl's edge, and on occasion, a loose droplet would spill over the side.

The bowl was full. She hadn't touched it. Everyone else was so jovial. Not all smiled and laughed the way Cologne and Surma did, but whatever burdens they carried disappeared along with the empty space in their stomachs. Food cured all ills that day—at least, for Shampoo and Ukyō, but not for her.

They'd left Ranma to the Sorcerers.

And so had she.

It was on the way back to the Amazon village that the story finally filtered down to her.

"How could you do that?" she'd cried, looking to Cologne, Shampoo, and Ukyō. "You had him and let him go? You let him sacrifice his own freedom so you could all escape?"

A scoff. At the head of the Amazon caravan back to their village, Cologne marched forward, her unwavering eye fixed on the terrain. "Please, Tendō. Do not accuse me of cowardice. Stronger, braver warriors have condemned me for worse. Son-in-law is capable of his own decisions. That he managed to hold out as long as he did is a testament to his quick wits, but I can think of nothing that would've dissuaded him from the course he chose. To him, fighting the Sorcerer Guard was more important than his own escape. Were it not for his cunning, were it not for our retreat, you would be alone on this path. Ranma surrendered his freedom for us."

She looked back, meeting Akane's gaze.

"He surrendered his freedom for you, too."

That was the truth, and the truth stung her. Ranma was willing to sacrifice. Ranma was willing to be brave. What had Akane done?

She took a deal. The Sorcerers offered her a way out, and she grabbed it by the horns. Ranma would _want_ her to leave? Really? When did she ever know anything about what he wanted?

No, that was wrong. There was no smart reason to stay with those people, to let them pry information from her about the Amazons, about the people in the best position to help Ranma. Ranma could take care of himself. If anyone could withstand being the Sorcerers' prisoner, he could. What comfort could she offer him if she'd stayed in their custody? Would they have let her see him at all?

Not if they were smart. No, there were many reasons—good reasons, at that—for Akane to do what she did. Free from the Sorcerers, she could help Ranma. It was logical, sound thinking.

But it did nothing to quell her emotions or the temptation she felt. At least Ukyō and Shampoo had seen Ranma. At least they could tell he was all right. Truly it would've served no purpose if she'd stayed behind, but to see Ranma safe and alive…

"Akane no like Great-grandmother's cooking?"

She jolted, waking from her reverie. "Pardon?"

Shampoo cleared the full bowl from the table. The others had risen, stretching their legs, and filed through the front door.

"Akane eat nothing," she said. "Food no good?"

Shampoo was close—too close to her. Even unarmed, she was capable of too much to ignore. A martial artist can make weapons from anything: a pair of chopsticks, a porcelain spoon…

Akane scooted away a step, just enough to put some distance between them. "I'm sure it's wonderful," she said. "I just…can't bring myself to eat today. I meant no disrespect."

"None was taken." Shampoo held the bowl over her shoulder like a waitress, walking it to the sink. "But Akane do no good for Ranma if she mope while we rest."

"And why's that? Why should I stuff myself full and act like nothing's happened?"

"When war come to village, Amazons fight when they must. When break in war comes, Amazons celebrate and forget the battles that came before. We eat and dance and make sweet, sweet love to adoring husbands—"

"Don't you think you're getting a little carried away?"

Shampoo shot her a look but let the remark pass. "We partake of life because next day, war come to us again." She rested a bowl on the counter, covering it in a thin square of cloth. "If we no celebrate days without fighting, then each day is same. Each day is death."

A wise sentiment, but Akane could muster no happy feelings on this day. To celebrate, one must have something to cherish, but everything Akane could think of was far away.

No, that was wrong. Everything she could think of she'd willingly left behind. An ocean she'd put between herself and home. Miles of desolate plateau she'd trudged across to leave Ranma where he was.

Happiness was for people who had those comforts, not for her.

#

When the battle is over yet the war must go on, the weary soldiers who live recount their best days of glory, the moments of heroism that give them pride. The generals with men still left to fight plot with one another, drawing up plans and strategies. Ambassadors from foreign parties visit to discuss the effect of war on their states. There is talk and negotiation, struggle and discord, and all of it for nothing. All of it just for man to revel in the sound of his own voice—to take comfort in it but say nothing.

By noon of the third day since Akane had left Jusenkyō, there was much of this pompous, empty talk. On the Elders' Rise, the cliff above the village where the Council met, Shampoo recounted her party's skirmishes with the Sorcerers and told of how her men worked through a sleepless night, dredging up debris to cross the flooded springs. When Shampoo's turn finished, Cologne stepped forward, flames of the bonfire at her back. She spoke of Ranma and his gallant rescue of an Amazon warrior from the depths of Mount Kensei. With awe and regret, she condemned Ranma for his foolishness yet praised his bravery. He faced an army alone, after all. Without his efforts, none would've escaped to tell the tale.

And last of those present at Jusenkyō, Akane came forth, but unlike the others, she recalled nothing so glamorous or bold. She spoke of nights spent with the enemy, of a girl who naïvely tried to escape by her lonesome but awakened instead among tile and porcelain, hours after the battle had been lost. Everyone else, it seemed, had had their share of something important that day—if not victory, then a reasonable, if bittersweet, retreat—but Akane wasn't among them. When Ranma needed her most, she'd lain unconscious amid the rubble of the Guide's home, and though no one would voice their disapproval of her, she sensed it all the same. She sensed it from the shaded faces of the Silent Nine, who, though forbidden to speak, watched her incessantly, staring at her. She sensed it from the trio of Speakers before her, from the friends and comrades who stood at her back. The Sorcerers had sent her, a beaten puppy, back to the bigger dogs with but one purpose left: the message they'd given her, like a note tied to a bright red collar.

Akane passed on that message, and there were more than just the Elders to listen to her, for the Council entertained guests that day. Two envoys of the Phoenix tribe, summoned by short-wave radio, circled the campfire and swooped in to land.

"So it's Keema's lackeys, is it?" said Mousse. "Korma and Masala? Can't say I thought I'd see you two again."

Masala scoffed. "I didn't think the blind duck saw us in the first place."

All pleasantries aside, the representatives of the Phoenix, once briefed on the affair at the spring ground, had little of use to say.

"You say the Sorcerers want Lord Saffron, but why would they?" asked Korma. "We know you people hate the Sorcerers, but what do we have to do with it?"

Thus, Korma denied the Amazons access Mount Phoenix, even as emissaries, even while the Chinese Army confirmed the Sorcerers power.

"Our reconnaissance satellites have verified it," said a general from the People's Liberation Army, handing out photographic evidence of the illusory forest where the pools should be. "This 'distortion' about the spring ground extends four kilometers in every direction."

"So we can count on the People's Republic to lend us aid in this matter?" asked Surma. "I can't imagine how letting the Sorcerers overtake _your_ sovereign territory is in the Party's interests."

"On the contrary, the Chairman has no desire to interfere in tribal affairs," said the general. "You will be allowed to settle your conflict as you please."

Cologne muttered to herself. "That means they'll let us destroy each other and pick up the scattered remnants when we're done."

"There is, however, some arrangement we could consider," said the general.

"Oh?" said Surma. "Do tell."

"If you have a granddaughter who is young and unwed, then perhaps we could—"

Then perhaps Elder Surma would chase off the libidinous general with a swinging, flaming torch.

It was stupidity. Stupidity and stubbornness all around. No one would Akane blame for their fiercely protective self-interest, but that didn't make them any less idiotic. That didn't make them any less wrong. Maybe they wouldn't trust Ranma, but she did. If he said the Sorcerers were after Saffron, doubtless he meant it. If no one else would listen, that wasn't just their loss. Only a leap of faith would rescue Ranma now. Without someone to heed his words, his sacrifice would mean nothing.

And yet it was cruelly fitting. So often Akane had given him no chance to defend himself, no time to explain his actions. She'd disbelieved Ranma that day, the day the cold rain fell, and now, no one would heed him at all.

The Council wanted time—time to reason out the puzzle before them, to deliberate. And so the party from Nerima returned to Shampoo's home. They ate. They sparred before the front steps, and the sun continued its inexorable journey through the sky. Daylight turned to dusk and then night.

They slept.

They dreamed.

In her dreams, Akane saw the world with eyes that weren't her own. She watched her own face—a doppelganger's face—twist with rage on the sidewalk outside Ukyō's shop. She fled through forest and brush from the Sorcerer captain, and when a rockslide buried her, she burst from the rubble and blasted herself free, yet her own foolish compassion earned her naught but a slash on the thigh. By a river foreign to her, Kohl led the way to an imposing, black stone tower. There, she bore witness to a battle of the ancients, where Amazon and Sorcerer crumbled to dust before a single spell, but her journey here was yet unfinished. From a pallid young boy, she learned to fear the emotions that could be stirred in her heart. From an innocent babe, she grew to hate the Sorcerers for what they were. And though she tried to escape, the captain was there. The Lady was there. And they would hold her as long as it took to take their goal:

Saffron. The person meant to be their Sieve. Akane knew because she saw these things, heard the words of the Sorcerers, but not her own. As she trained the Sorcerers in how to beat the Phoenix, the voice that spoke with her mouth was familiar. As she struggled against dehydration among the tunnels of Kensei, she spied her own reflection in puddles of tainted water: a face, boy or girl, that she knew all too well.

_Ranma? _

"Wake up, Akane."

Blackness, night. Woolen blankets trapped the heat against her body, her only insulation against the cold.

It was Shampoo's house, and Akane lay on a twin bed, with Ukyō snoozing just a few feet away.

Her head pounded. If night could shimmer and swirl, it would make her dizzy. She sat upright, hugging her knees.

"It was all…just a dream?"

"Not quite."

The voice that answered her came from the doorway, from a figure enshrined in a soft, supernatural glow. He stepped forward and crouched beside Akane's bed, bearing a warm smile.

"Hey there, tomboy," he said. "You don't look too bad."

"Ran—"

"Shh!" He put a finger to his lips. "We don't need to wake Ucchan."

Akane lowered her voice to a whisper, but her tone was incredulous. "Don't need to wake her? Ranma, you—you're here! You've escaped, haven't you?"

His smile turned wistful and sad. "Sorry. It's just a touch of Sorcerer magic I picked up. I ain't really here at all."

Not really here?

Then this person who kneeled beside her, whose breath tingled her skin—he was only an image? An illusion?

Akane trembled. "Still!" she said. "Ukyō would want to see you. Everyone should!"

"Dummy," he said, laughing to himself. "It's just you and me here. Truthfully, I don't know I could reach more than one person. I'm still new to this vision thing."

"Vision?"

"It's a long story. Look, I don't know how much time we have, and that's a shame, really. There's a lot I'd want to say."

"Ranma—"

This time, he put a finger over her lips and cracked a grin. "Maybe it doesn't work this way in the real world, but hear me out for a minute, will you?"

Akane nodded, taking hold of his finger and lowering it to her lap. "All right," she said. "I'll listen. I promise."

Ranma eyed their intertwined hands. "Akane…"

"Go on. You should hurry, right?"

"Oh, yeah. It's, well…" He pulled back, but Akane held his hand in place. "That is, um—"

"Holding a girl's hand makes you nervous?"

"Say what?"

Akane snickered.

"Oh, come on, this ain't no time for jokes!"

"Then tell me—whatever it is you came to say, I'm here to listen. I can take it. I'll believe you." She squeezed his hand. "I want to save you, Ranma. I want you back home with me. I've already told everyone. I finally managed to tell myself. I—"

"Akane, don't. Save it."

"But Ranma!"

"Save it for when we see each other face-to-face," he said. "For real. Not this vision where I'm not really here. Save for when I've had a chance…" He fingered a shirt-button in the middle of his chest. "…a chance to earn it."

Akane shook her head. "You've already done so much. Don't think you haven't earned what I want to give you. What I choose to give you."

His eyes widened; he blinked in faint surprise, but soon enough he nodded, a warm smile coming to his lips. "I guess we've got a lot to talk about when all this is over."

"I want to have that conversation, Ranma. When we're home together, I want that very much."

"I think I'd like that, too." His gaze hardened. "But there's a lot that needs to happen right now; a lot we need to do to get there. I've tried to show you all I can. If that ain't good enough for Keema to listen, I don't know what is. I've lied to the Sorcerers, Akane. I've told them things that are wrong about the Phoenix and what they can do. I hope that'll be enough, but if it isn't, there's going to be a fight. Know this when I say it: these Sorcerers have to be stopped. They're twisted. They're wrong. What they're doing is nothing short of evil, and if Shampoo and Ucchan can come meet them at Mount Phoenix and kick their sorry asses, so much the better."

"But Ranma—"

"Sindoor's the real problem, though. If anyone needs to be sent straight to hell for what she's done, it's her. It won't be easy, but—"

"Ranma!"

He stopped. "What is it?"

"What about me?" asked Akane. "You mentioned Shampoo and Ukyō. Why do you talk like you don't expect me to be there?"

"Come on now—"

"Answer me. Please."

He grimaced. "Now don't get me wrong here."

"I'll try not to."

"I'm really, um, _glad_ you came to help find me and all, but you've got to think for a minute, okay? You were almost trapped at Jusenkyō, am I right?"

Akane bowed her head. What was she going to do? Admit that her freedom was only Kohl's prerogative?

"You've done enough," said Ranma. "Ryōga, Mousse, Shampoo, Ucchan—they're capable. They're good people…most of the time. You can trust them to go to Mount Phoenix and do things right. You don't need to be there."

"And if I _want_ to be there?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Why would you want—"

"You're going to be there, aren't you?" she said.

"I'm going to try to make them take me, but I don't know if—"

"Then I want to be there, too."

"Akane, really, think for a minute. This could break down into all-out war. It's dangerous!"

"You think I don't understand that?"

"I think you're being too stubborn to think things through!"

"You can't tell me that! You don't know what I've thought through or not!"

She took a breath, squeezing his hand again.

"You don't know how much it hurts, knowing what I said…"

"I'm sorry, Akane."

"For what?" she cried, head down. "What are you sorry for?"

"I think I have to go."

With a sorrowful expression, Ranma met her gaze.

He was fading out.

"No!" she said. "Don't go!"

"The vision dust's wearing off," he said. "I'm sorry; I have to. This was all I had." He looked down. "I meant what I said, though. If the others go to Mount Phoenix, I want you to stay here."

"Don't say that!"

"I mean it!" he said. "If you go there, you're just going to get hurt."

"I'm prepared for that."

"Well I ain't!"

She recoiled. The force of his words pushed her back. Even Ranma seemed to realize it. He lowered his voice again, speaking barely above a whisper.

"Just…take care of yourself, tomboy." He brushed a lock of her hair back, over her ear. "And do something about this hair of yours when you wake up, all right? It's a mess."

"Why you—" She flinched. " 'Wake up'?"

"Yeah, Akane," he said, fading out. "It's time to wake up."

Light. Chirping. Wood and plaster and woolen blankets.

"What's the matter, Akane-chan?" asked Ukyō, wrapping her bindings around her chest. "Something wrong?"

#

Convincing the Amazons was easy enough. That morning, Akane relayed the substance of her vision to Cologne, who, though dismissive at first, heard her out to the fullest detail.

"A 'sieve,' you say, to 'contain their magic'?" Cologne shook her head, hunched over her walking stick. "I find this most peculiar. In truth, I have a hard time believing Ranma could send you such a specific account."

Akane nodded. It was hard for her to believe herself, but that was the choice: either it was fantasy or reality, and Akane chose reality. Though his touch might've been mere illusion, Ranma's warmth stayed with her, for that was as real as could be.

She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and met Cologne's gaze. "When you thought Shampoo was coming back to Jusenkyō, you told Ranma that your blood was in danger."

Cologne raised an eyebrow. "As I remember it, that isn't all I said."

With that knowing glance, Cologne accepted Akane's tale. Together, the two of them went to the Phoenix emissaries. Korma and Masala were skeptical (and, as it happened, somewhat unfamiliar with the meaning of the word _sieve_), the two representatives of the Phoenix agreed that the matter would be best handled by Keema herself.

"Are you sure it means a strainer, though?" said Korma. "I could swear, written that way, that means _underbrush_."

"How could you think it makes sense for the Sorcerers to turn Saffron into 'underbrush'?" said Ryōga.

Masala frowned. "How does it make sense that they'd use him to strain noodles?"

"Yeah," said Korma. "Lord Saffron's power would make it easy to cook noodles, not strain them. It's much more reasonable to think he could use his fire to clear away weeds and shrubs."

After a long and heated debate over the best practical uses of Saffron's powers, the party had prepared to set out. Even the Council wouldn't withhold its assent in this matter, opting to dispatch them at once while preparing a main force to follow. Indeed, the matter had passed without resistance. It seemed the only true dismay among the party was with Akane herself.

_You _are_ worried for me, aren't you, Ranma? _

Crinkle. A clod of dirt disintegrated under her heel. For three days the group had hiked south and west. At last, a tall, narrow crag poked over the horizon, the only landmark in a wasteland of open desert plain.

A voice in Akane's mind answered her. "Of course I'm worried," said a vision of a pigtailed girl, who walked in Akane's imagination, treading behind her. "Whether I say it or not, I'm worried. I'd be a fool not to be. So are you if you don't give it a thought."

Akane tightened the straps on her pack. _I know this is dangerous. If the Sorcerers come, there'll be fighting._

"Can you blame me for not wanting you in the middle of that?"

_Can you blame _me_ for going forward, knowing the risk? _

"You're as stubborn as ever."

She smiled. _Yeah. I guess so. All I know is I'd rather find you here, angry with me for being so stubborn, than have to sit and worry on my own._

"That's not a good reason."

_Then let's meet face-to-face this time, Ranma, so I can tell you what I came here to say._

As the mountain in the distance loomed higher on the horizon, the shadows of Phoenix patrols swept over the party, long and distorted by the setting sun. The shapes they outlined were sinister, and so were the attitudes of the Phoenix guards who greeted the party at the base of the mountain. Gruff and militant, they said little, merely pointing the way up the grand stair.

"I expected as much," said Cologne, leading the pack. "Ranma's battle with Saffron may have restored water to the central well, but Saffron still lives as a child, unable to bathe the people in heat and light. Such misfortune must still grate on them."

Shampoo exchanged a glare with one of the Phoenix warrior. "Feeling mutual," she said. "Phoenix no forgive for Saffron; Shampoo no forgive for what they do to her, either."

"There will be other times to heal damaged pride, child."

"Is no time like present." Shampoo folded her arms, marching on.

Midway up the mountain, the group's escort led them to a guest house, a structure built seamlessly into the sheer mountain face—one step through the doorway, and natural rock gave way to modern plaster and brickwork, with shining murals of the phoenix adorning the walls.

"It's incredible," said Akane, setting her pack down to peer through the windows. "Hey, where does this door go?"

"Ah!" Ryōga flinched. "Akane-san, I wouldn't do that!"

Akane pushed through a pair of double doors, taking a step.

And two steps further, there was nothing but air.

Akane froze, eyes wide like saucers. "It's—it's…"

"A straight drop." Masala grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her from the precipice. "It works if you can fly. Not so much for a landling like you."

"You might've told us first!" said Ukyō.

"We would've caught her if she fell." Korma frowned, reconsidering. "Well, we might've."

Were it not for such a long way down, Akane could've held this place in wonder and awe. Indeed, to see the Phoenix people fly about the mountain, swooping between platforms carved wholly from the near-vertical spire of rock—it entranced her. Mousse and Ryōga and Shampoo had come to this place before, but she hadn't. She knew the people, yes, for they'd held her within Mount Kensei. She knew their tactics, for they pelted her with arrows and spears as she made her escape.

And she knew their leader, the woman who took her to Jusenkyō, the creature with pure white hair and and alabaster wings.

Their belongings secure, the party moved on again, climbing the stone stairs up the mountain. Their destination: the court of the Phoenix Lord, in which the servants of Saffron saw to the daily business of their tribe…

And where the leader of the tribe in Saffron's stead sat upon the winged throne, bathed in torchlight as dusk settled over the mountain.

"So," she said, rising, spreading her wings to full breadth. "The emissaries of the Amazons have arrived."

Akane stiffened, a chill tingling the back of her neck. This person had used her, after all. She taunted Akane about her relationship with Ranma. She captured her and brought her back to China, and all for what? To use as a tool against Ranma? To serve the transformation of Saffron?

And now they were supposed to be allies, yet Akane's heart couldn't help but beat a little faster, keeping her on edge.

"I must say, I found the explanation for the Sorcerers' awakening most intriguing," said Keema, who stepped forward lightly, as if to walk on air itself. "The Sorcerers have long kept to themselves, as have we. It is curious to think they would make us their enemy as well as you, isn't it?"

"Perhaps it is," said Cologne, leaning forward on her walking stick, "but facts are facts. The Sorcerers believe Saffron's rebirth to be the cause of their Sieve's failure and demand that the perpetrator also be the replacement. It is a sensible system, if strange to the likes of us."

Keema nodded. "Whatever the reasons, my priority is the protection of Lord Saffron. I know well the history between your people and the Sorcerers. I am not interested in your war. You are the people who've come offering aid; for me to accept it, I must be convinced it is necessary."

So convince her they did. Or tried to, at least, over the finest feast the Phoenix could spare. With naught but dusky horizon around, the party dined in open air, bracing against the drafty winds of the upper mountain. To see the her guests scramble for overcoats and mittens accused Keema to no end. "You landlings get cold so easily," she said.

"Alas, we possess not a bird's high metabolism to keep ourselves so warm," said Cologne.

Keema sneered. "Perhaps you should eat, then, and warm yourselves from the inside." She looked to Mousse. "Or perhaps you find our meal unappealing?"

Mousse pushed away his plate of roast duck, glazed in a syrup of milk sugar. "How can you people do this? Isn't it like cannibalism or something?"

"That we have wings to fly with doesn't make us treat birds as our kin," said Keema, slicing her duck with her bare finger claws. "We respect them as partners, but in the end, a partner that has served long and well, who can fly no more, can only do us one last service." She gestured toward the plate. "They give back to us, to those who raised them from hatching. Make no mistake: we are all alone on this mountain here, as we have been for decades, centuries. All of us who die must eventually give back. Only Lord Saffron does not, for he cannot die. He is the heart of our people, and that is why, even as I can hardly believe your tale of the Sorcerers' goals, I must consider any threat to him and thwart it."

"You sure take protecting this Saffron of yours seriously," said Ukyō.

Keema raised an eyebrow. "I don't know you. Are you truly ignorant of the role Lord Saffron plays for our people?"

"Save your breath," said Ryōga. "Ukyō might not have heard it, but we've all endured the spiel."

"Lord Saffron's adult form provides constant heat and light for our people. At these heights, the night can be frigid and cold even in summer. Our Lord takes the chill from the dark."

"Ah, the joys of a human radiator," said Mousse.

Keema glared. "It is not only that. Over the railing, you may see the fields below, where we grow many crops to last us through the winter. Sweet potato, rhubarb—I could go on. It is difficult work, even for us. You needn't dig deep to find earth that is frozen year-round. When Lord Saffron is at the height of his power, the fields bask in his radiance at night. Anywhere else, crops must lie dormant at sunset and go without light until morning. Here, even the short, rough growing season on the Plateau is doubled by Lord Saffron's power. Once, when I was a child no taller than a rod, I helped my father take in the harvest. That was when Lord Saffron was on his last days of that incarnation. His flame was weak, and yet, every sweet potato we pulled from the ground was taller and heaver than I. We ate well that winter. I even had the childish complacency to tell my parents I didn't think we should plant sweet potatoes the next year.

"But Lord Saffron was reborn that spring, and without his fire, the harvest was small. I didn't have the luxury to grow weary of sweet potatoes that year. We had hardly enough to eat that winter, certainly not for myself, my father, my mother who broke a wing…."

The table was quiet.

"It's been many years since we had a harvest like that one," said Keema. "With Lord Saffron an infant now, it'll be many more before those times return. We may have water, and that is good, but water is merely a scarcity here. Water alone can't make the fields productive, the crops good. So if you think the importance of Lord Saffron is a _spiel_ we use to intimidate outsiders, you're mistaken. I, for one, would very much like to be sick of sweet potatoes again."

The guests at the table eyed their meals. "Wait a minute," said Ryōga. "Isn't this…" He picked apart a tuberous root with his chopsticks. "This is sweet potato, isn't it?"

"Yes. It is."

Mousse cleared his throat. "It's your own fault, you know."

Ukyō gaped. "Are you serious? You really just said that after the speech she just gave?"

"Don't be a fool. If Keema has anyone to blame for Saffron lying in a crib right now, it's herself. That's right, Keema: you kidnapped Shampoo, you brainwashed her, you caused no end of trouble for all of us. You should just be glad you came out of the deal with water back in your mountain. You can't blame any of us for doing what we had to for Shampoo, for our cures."

"You care nothing for my people," said Keema. "You care nothing for the safety of Lord Saffron, am I right? It is only fortunate for you that the Sorcerers, the very Sorcerers your people hate so much, have made _us_ their enemy?"

"It would be fair," said Cologne, "considering we had a hand in putting Saffron in his current state to assist you."

"Yes. We all know who killed Lord Saffron, don't we. We all know who and why."

Akane gulped.

"How ironic that I must now aid, however indirectly, the person who slew my lord," said Keema. "But this I will do, should it serve Lord Saffron and his people. I will help Saotome Ranma, as you all so much seem to want, but I will take no pleasure in it. I will enjoy it not. You care nothing for my people; I care nothing for your Ranma. He bested the Lord in battle, and for that, he has my respect, nothing more. If I could meet him alone, face-to-face, if the information he bears about the Sorcerers and their threat held no meaning to my people…"

Keema's talons sank into the table.

"I would like nothing more than that," she finished. "Nothing more. But for now, I do my duty. You say the Sorcerers are a threat to us. You say they come to face us in battle, and you have faced them yourself. Tell me, then: how do they fight? What magics do they wield? I want to know how to beat them. I want to know how to kill them. If the Sorcerers truly mean to take Lord Saffron from us, I want to know how to make them run, so that in their retreat, we can fly after them and slice them from shoulder to hip."

And so, over a tense dinner, Shampoo and Cologne recounted their clashes with the Sorcerers, from battles recent to those of decades past. The Amazon contingent stayed longest, while the others, like Ryōga and Ukyō, headed to bed early, content to sleep off the fatigue of the hike. Akane, too, took to her sleeping bag in the cold, black guest house that fused with the side of the mountain.

Keema was right, after all. Without Saffron, pitch darkness blanketed the room.

_But I'm not fooled. I knew Saffron, too. I heard him—how he taunted Ranma. He was as much his own undoing as Ranma was. He pushed Ranma. He egged him on._

Akane rolled over, staring at the ceiling.

_He made Ranma kill him._

Maybe that was why Ranma didn't want her to come. For Akane, talk of Saffron brought back memories of that duel: of being small and unable to speak, of unbearable heat that scorched her until she could be dried no further. In one sense, it was ironic. At the time she most needed Ranma, at the time she was weakest, she'd saved him, too. Had she flung herself into Saffron's fireball as a living, breathing human being, made of flesh and bone and blood, it would've incinerated her insides.

She would've just died.

When the choice came between Ranma risking his life for her and her dying, she knew what she'd do. She'd already done it before.

_That_ was why he didn't want her to go. Even if he thought she didn't remember that decision, he knew what she would choose. He knew what she'd chosen the last time.

_Is it so hard to understand, Ranma? You always think you have to protect someone, but I can do that, too. I can protect you, in my own way. I want to. Why don't you understand that? Why do you tell me to stay away? Because you don't want to see me hurt? It's not like it's easy the other way around. You get hurt. You take more damage than you care to admit. I know I'm not as good as you. Not many people are, but you've trusted them before. You trusted Mousse and Ryōga-kun to go to China with you._

She rolled to her side, staring out a formless window, into the black.

_Can't you trust me this one time? _

A spark. Flames and beacons, tiny spots of light, streaked in the distance.

_What's that? _

Akane slipped out of her sleeping bag, feeling her way through the dark. She crept to the window, and outside, more and more beacons came to life, like fireflies flaring to a brilliant glow.

But these fireflies had wings of feathers, not gossamer.

"Ukyō, Ryōga-kun, wake up! Something's happening!"

A torch flickered over the room. Shampoo ducked through the doorway, fiery club in one hand, steel ball and handle in the other.

"All wake quickly," she said. "Get weapons. Be ready to fight."

"Ready for what?" asked Akane.

"Keema's patrols see them," said Shampoo. "Sorcerer scouts. They come to find Saffron. They come before the invasion force."

* * *

**Next:** Ranma goes before Sindoor's court, making the case to go with the invasion force and, so he hopes, find an opportunity to escape, but the Sorcerer captain is suspicious. The Lady may dislike reliance on magic, but Kohl isn't afraid to use an ancient spell…and test Ranma's truthfulness once and for all. **The Sorcerers start to unravel Ranma's web of lies in "Ashes" Part III - "Riddles" - Coming August 27, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	30. Ashes III: Riddles

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** The Sorcerers prepare for their assault on the Phoenix, but a critical weakness in their strategy remains—their reliance on Ranma, who has the Lady's ear. To separate truth from fiction, the Sorcerer captain must decide what he himself believes in.

* * *

**Riddles**

_Chapter Five, Act Three_

"You mean to tell me you didn't invade the Chambers of Magic's Coupling last night?"

Ranma blinked. "Chambers of what did you say? Guf?"

"Of Magic's Coupling!" said Kohl.

"Ain't never heard of those, either."

Morning in the village of the Sorcerers, and by Ranma's hut, Kohl questioned the prisoner, with lower-ranked subordinates of the Guard in attendance.

"You can be assured, advisor," said Lieutenant Xiu, "the prisoner did not escape. I've personally questioned the men on duty here. They report no irregularities."

"They wouldn't if they screwed up again," said Ranma.

Kohl narrowed his eyes. "And you would tell me if they left their posts for some reason?"

"Hey, who do you trust these days? Me?" Ranma pointed to Xiu. "Or him?"

"Neither."

"Perhaps palace advisors should keep out of the business of the Guard," said Xiu.

"Just what do you mean to say, lieutenant?"

"I mean to say that I report to my captain, to the Lady, and to no one else."

_Don't tell me that,_ thought Kohl. _If I were the captain right now, you'd say you report to the advisor instead. The only person you report to is the one not in front of your face._ He turned to Ranma. "Well? What do you say in your own defense?"

"That if my guards were stupid enough to abandon their duties and give me an opening, I sure didn't see it while I slept."

_Typical._

"And really, think for a second: if I really did escape, why would I go to your Chambers of Royal Pizza Making to make garlic bread and spit in your holy marinara sauce like you say I did?"

Kohl blinked. "That is not what you're accused of."

"Same difference. Why would I come back here? Why would I come back in this body, no less? I mean, come on, I enjoy not hitting my head on a doorframe as much as the next guy, but I don't need to be a girl to do that. I just have to duck."

"Do you purposefully construct sentences so that they make no intrinsic sense?"

"Yeah," said Ranma. "Don't you?"

Kohl groaned. Tempted as he was to get to the truth of this matter, to proceed further would be like plowing over a bed of rocks just to plant dandelions—an utterly pointless exercise. In truth, Ranma had already told him a great deal. If Ranma had escaped, there wasn't a good reason for Ranma to come back to captivity, just as he pointed out.

Which, of course, meant that he'd done just that; the reason just wasn't apparent, but there _was_ a reason. What Kohl felt in the tower the night before could only be Ranma, no one else.

But how did he escape with Xiu's men—nay, with Kohl's own men—standing guard at every hour of the day? That fact alone led to an inexorable conclusion: either Xiu was lying, or his men were.

Or, perhaps, everybody was lying, and there was no truth to be found at all.

"If you just want to keep staring at me, be my guest," said Ranma. "But it looks like you're already getting an audience. Might want to quit while you're only so far behind."

"An 'audience'?" Kohl looked to Xiu. "What is she talking about?"

The lieutenant jerked his head toward the river. "She's here."

"Who?"

"Look."

Ten paces toward the bank, a girl strolled along the river. With short light hair and a pale complexion, she turned her head toward Ranma's hut and away again, lest her gaze be noticed by those who looked back at her.

"What's she doing out?" Kohl asked Xiu. "Aren't you her keeper?"

"Not anymore if the Lady has anything to do with it." Xiu tapped his foot. "Are we done here?"

"For the moment."

"Good," said Xiu. "I've got some trainees to blow up. If you'll excuse me…"

Kohl pointed to the four guards at Ranma's hut. "You don't let her out of your sight, understand?"

Four staff points pounded the dirt, kicking up a fine dust.

"Good," said Kohl. "Very good. As you were."

"Even now you're giving orders."

Kohl jolted, surprised. The girl ten paces away stood before him, in arm's reach.

"And you're still a quiet step," said Kohl.

"I'm out of practice," said the girl. "I used to be able to cross the river without anyone catching that I'd left. Not even you."

"Those were different days."

"Yes. They were."

In the doorway to the hut, Ranma peered from shadow, his gaze focused and unwavering.

"Come," said Kohl, leading his guest away. "We're being watched."

"She's skilled, isn't she."

"Too much, I fear." Kohl eyed to his companion. "What are you doing here?"

"I thought it'd be a good day to be outside," said the girl. "A fitting day to feel the morning breeze. It's enjoyable."

"For some."

The girl stifled a laugh. "You might be right."

"Are you headed somewhere?"

"Nowhere particular. Perhaps you'd show me around a bit? Some things are familiar, but others…not as much."

"I'd be happy to." Kohl smiled. "Tilaka."

#

They walked along the riverbank for a time, with sun and silence as their companions. Perhaps it was selfish of them, to stroll idly while their kin toiled to bring fruit from the earth, but to Kohl, this walk together was long overdue.

Eight years overdue.

"You were going to take me to the tower," said the girl Tilaka. "Back then, you were…a scribe?"

"An apprentice scribe," said Kohl. "A keeper of court documents for the Lady."

"That's right. You said you'd show me around the palace grounds—at least, what you could show me without angering your master." Tilaka smiled. "I'd almost forgotten."

Forgetfulness, loss of memory—those Kohl could forgive. Tilaka had endured much, after all. To forget likely protected her mind and soul, shielded her from the prying fingers of the Lady's priests, the ones who scoured and scrubbed at Tilaka's heart until they could squeeze out the remains like putty. Better it was that Tilaka forgot some things—she'd be worse off the more she remembered.

As Kohl had been. Sometimes, he felt he remembered too much. He remembered trudging down the path to the tower as a twelve-year-old boy, bearing a bundle of scrolls on his back. Shopkeepers and merchants in the bazaar had traded rumors instead of goods that day. They spoke of peculiar dreams and odd feelings in their hands and arms. They spoke of the lonely soul atop the tower and wondered if, as had happened before, the Sieve could've failed again.

All this talk Kohl had dismissed at first. His day was too busy to do otherwise. The Lady's court required parchment to record the day's activities, and at his master's side, Kohl would write and listen. He'd listen until the sun touched the edge of the mountain to the west. When it disappeared fully, he'd go to his second life, his life as a girl, as a trainee in the Sorcerer Guard, for the new recruits sparred by night, by the light of magic's flame, where no one would see their faces but each other.

But that was not all Kohl had planned, for in the time between his two lives, he would meet a friend to transcend both of them: a boy he knew as _Quelei_, the finch, for that, like _Wuya_, was a name to take on in battle, in service to the Guard.

But Kohl knew his real name—that was, _her_ real name. They changed when touched by hot water. All those who would be in the Guard did. It was a danger, to feel and wield magic at its fullest power, but it was needed. It was necessary. It was necessary to hide behind false faces and names, yet how can we rely on our comrades in battle if they live with us all the time, wearing faces that are foreign, answering to names we neither hear nor speak?

Even when he and Tilaka revealed their bodies to each other one night, at the edge of the spring, they dared not reveal their own names, for it would be disastrous, at best, if they sparred among the other trainees and said the wrong name instead.

But Tilaka's face Kohl knew, and her saw her, not that afternoon as he'd planned, but on the path to the tower, where a squad of his instructors bound the girl Tilaka to two poles and carried her, sleeping, to the Lady's chambers.

The chambers were sealed that morning. There was no need for a mere apprentice scribe, certainly, when matters were more important.

Much had changed in the eight years hence. At the top of the waterfall, the Lady announced the name of the new Sieve for all to hear. She would have to serve in a boy's body to feel the wayward desires of the village—to feel them and overcome them. Though she'd been known as the Finch in that body, soon it came to be that all referred to the boy form as Tilaka, too. Perhaps some had forgotten she used to be a girl at all.

Eight years later, they would remember soon enough. Looking over his companion, Kohl could only repeat the thought in his mind: indeed much had changed. The girl he'd seen only twice before—once on the waterfall path, once by the spring—had developed well. He'd guessed as much, having watched Tilaka's boy form put on height and muscle, but cooped up in a room, sleeping during the day, one could grow only so much. The girl before Kohl now kept her boy-form's short, light hair, but her tunic was looser in the chest than before.

_I think she's better 'developed' than me._

Kohl frowned.

_That's a good thing._

"Something troubles you?"

He blinked. "What?"

"You're staring."

"I'm not."

Tilaka grinned. "You are."

"I'm not." Kohl set his eyes downriver. "I assure you, I'm not."

"You _were_, Kohl." Tilaka smiled again. "I like that name. _Kohl_. I wish I'd known it before."

"Wouldn't have done you much good to know it."

"No." She looked down, watching her feet. "I suppose not."

_That was a mistake._

"Still," said Tilaka, "it would've been no better if I saw you returning and called you by your other name instead. That would've been very bad."

"You expected to see me?"

"I expected you'd visit." She turned facing him, the river rapids crashing at her back. "Don't you remember what you told me before you left? To never be Sieve again? I've tried to do that. I've tried while the Lady sent priests every day."

"I didn't think I'd be allowed to see you."

"And I didn't think I'd be allowed to walk outside again." She shaded her eyes, gazing past and above him at the morning sun. "But here I am."

"I apologize. I've…been occupied."

"The attack on the ritual last night?"

"You know of it?"

"I sensed it."

"I see. You've met Saotome Ranma. Do you think it was her?"

"Perhaps."

" 'Perhaps'?"

"Whoever it was, they're very good at holding their ki within themselves. If we all could do that, I don't think the village would need a Sieve." Tilaka met his gaze. "Is that all that's distracted you?"

Kohl frowned. "Well…that is…"

"I mean to say I know you're busy—as the Lady's captain _and_ advisor? They're both great accomplishments, Kohl. You should be honored the Lady would grant you such privilege."

Kohl scoffed. "I wonder what such privilege is good for these days. Tell me, Tilaka: how long have you been free?"

"Not long. The Lady came to my chambers this morning with a bowl of water in her hand. She told me I'd done enough for the village, that I'd be cared for in honor of my service, that I should 'go free and be with friends again instead of the dark desires of all our souls.' That's what she said. I assumed it was thanks to you."

"It wasn't. I had no knowledge of it. I may be captain, I may be advisor, but I have no knowledge of anything the Lady does. Still we hold the spring ground, and why? To protect our own waters? How do priests and chemicals do that?" Kohl shook his head, pacing. "I don't know what they were doing inside that mountain, but I saw what was left of their experiments. I saw a creature so hideous I can't begin to tell you what it was made of, but I know what it came from. It used to be _human_, Tilaka. It used to be like us."

"I think you'll find not everyone wants the same thing," said his companion. "What drives us may be similar but not the same. I've felt that time and again in people; I consider it very certain. The Lady has her motives. Saotome Ranma has her motives."

"Saotome Ranma." Kohl's face twisted in disgust. "Why we put so much faith and importance in an outsider is beyond me. She uses our magic like it's natural to her. She's dangerous; she can't be trusted. She, like the Lady, is making moves to advance her agenda. We should kill her and be rid of the distraction."

"You don't think she can be useful?"

"I think she speaks, but her words have no meaning, or at worst, they mean the opposite of what should be apparent. She would say sun beats down on us even as the first starts twinkle in the sky." He squinted, looking skyward. "The sun looms high already."

"Such a shame. We've walked a great ways, yet we've spoken more of the tribe's than ourselves."

"Why did you look for me, Tilaka?"

"Why? Long have I thought you were dead, that the presence I felt from you was but a shadow, a memory that I should ignore, lest it be too painful to bear. But now I know you live, and I wanted to walk with my friend again—no, for the first time, so I could feel…"

"Feel what?"

Tilaka met his gaze, but her expression was blank and inscrutable.

"Nothing," she said at last. "Nothing at all."

#

As Kohl had said, the sun loomed high—a blazing reminder of the passage of time, and time was precious and scarce in the Sorcerer village. The march on Mount Phoenix was close at hand; the Lady demanded her advisor and captain consult with her on how best to supply an army, on how to strike at the enemy and take what was needed. So Kohl left Tilaka—or at least, he tried, but the girl followed him down the path by the waterfall, a coy grin on her face.

"I may not be Sieve anymore," said Tilaka, "but you didn't think the Lady would replace me without hearing my counsel, did you?"

Thus, with a bowl of hot water from the channelers' fountain, Kohl and Tilaka changed forms for their meeting with Sindoor. The Advisor's absence could be explained away; to draw up a massive offensive without the captain, however, was a much bigger stretch, and after so many years spent as a boy, few knew Tilaka any other way.

Thus the Sorcerers plotted the invasion of the Phoenix. They assembled a caravan of wagons to haul an army's rations. They charged the finest artisans to craft weapons that could hold a magical touch, for in staves and swords and daggers, even a latent energy could be stored and, at the appropriate time, unleashed in battle for an unexpected surge of power.

But all these things were trifles. They needed to be done, of course, but they merely led to the main event of the morning: the battle plan, the strike at Phoenix Mountain, the taking of Saffron himself. For that, Sindoor dismissed her scribes and attendants. In such meetings, it was better to have few minds to think clearly than many voices that would talk over each other. The chambers emptied but for Kohl, Tilaka, and the Lady.

And one other, who arrived with wrists bound together in rope.

"What is the meaning of this?" said Kohl. "She has no business within a hundred paces of the Lady!"

"I do as I'm ordered." Lieutenant Xiu and an escort of four guards walked the prisoner into Sindoor's court. "My lady, I present Saotome Ranma, as requested."

"The escort is dismissed," said Sindoor, sitting back on her throne. "I wish only for Xiu and Saotome Ranma to remain."

The guards bowed, and when they left, the double iron doors to the tower clanked shut.

"I take it I'm not as welcome here as I thought?" Ranma proffered his bound hands. "You guys' hospitality really chaps my…uh, wrists."

"My lady, I must object," said Kohl, disguising his words from Ranma in Chinese. "The outsider cannot be privy to our most secret plans!"

"I will let this meeting decide that," said Sindoor in clear Japanese. "The Sieve's vision and instinct led us to Saotome Ranma. If she is unnecessary to our objective, then we must assume the Sieve was mistaken. Is the Sieve's instinct in error?"

"I'm confident, my lady," said Tilaka. "There is no mistake."

"And is it not good fortune, then, that Saotome Ranma knows our enemy—that she's fought them before, including Saffron himself?"

"_Beat_ him before," said Ranma.

"Inconceivable," said Kohl.

Ranma scoffed. "Oh? I don't think that word means what you think it means." Stepping forward, he addressed Sindoor, putting Kohl out of his vision. "Look, we made a deal, didn't we? You guys get Saffron, I get to go on my way. It works for me. I don't care one way or another what you do with him. Make him into a giant Christmas ornament—I don't care—but if you guys go to Mount Phoenix and screw up because you didn't listen to me, then that doesn't do me any good. I know the Phoenix. I've told you what they can do. If you guys want to have fun storming the castle by yourselves, you're not just going to get yourselves killed. I know how this works—you're going to blame me for it, and that _does_ chap my ass. You guys want to beat Saffron? You guys want to do it right? Get me up to speed on the plan and take me with you. I know their mountain, I know their people, and if they pull a surprise on you, I can find you a way around it. What else can you do? Scour my memories with a mind probe until my brain's nothing more than swiss cheese?" He blinked. "You guys can't do that, can you?"

"Perhaps we should try," said Kohl. "Just to be certain."

"Cute, but luckily, I don't need to convince you." He looked to Sindoor. "Just your boss."

"I'm interested," said the Lady, "to hear what Saotome Ranma has to say as we prepare for the assault."

_This is folly._ Kohl scowled. _This is naught but madness and folly! Intelligence I understand. Information I understand, but to make this outsider an integral part of our tactical planning? She can sabotage us from within so easily. She'll use the opportunity to escape. My lady, you cannot be this foolish! You cannot be so trusting! _

As Xiu levitated a map of the Jusenkyō Basin and surrounding river systems, Sindoor fixed her gaze on Ranma, her stare subtle but unwavering.

_You're not this trusting._

No, the Lady knew how to use people. She'd kept Kohl close ever since that day eight years before. More persuasive than authority was the injustice one committed against another, and Kohl felt the weight of that. How could he not? To have Tilaka walk free again, when over a third of her life had evaporated in dark chambers atop the tower—that was just. That was fair. That was, perhaps, the only fair thing he'd done, the only reward he could accept for his service in the Lady's name.

And she knew it. Sindoor had let Tilaka free that morning, yet no doubt the message was meant for Kohl: "This is what you leave behind if you question me," it said. "This is what you forsake if you don't listen."

The Lady served the people. Her every measure was meant to ensure their protection, their survival—that they could practice their magic without destroying themselves within and without. This Kohl didn't doubt, but a question lingered beyond that:

Just what, beyond finding a new Sieve, did Sindoor think was necessary to save them?

Whatever the answer, Sindoor was no fool. Her gaze upon Ranma surely spoke to that. If Kohl were in her place, he might've done the same. Deals and agreements were for honorable people. Already Ranma had tried to escape twice over. This deal meant nothing to her. Ranma thought she could hoodwink her captors with lies, but that persona was just a mask, and nothing would shatter that mask better than to see through it, to expose the misdirection and, more than that, strike at something even Ranma couldn't cover up.

"I think we should approach from the most direct route: the trail northwest of the mountain," said Xiu. "All element of surprise will be moot if we waste time going around the mountain just to double back."

"Yeah, even though I'd say it's obvious and the Phoenix will know it, I guess you don't have much choice," said Ranma. "They're just as likely to spot you if you go a long way around, and then you'll be found out."

"That assumes the Phoenix have patrols that are looking for something," said Sindoor. "Or someone."

"Please," said Ranma. "Even they should've noticed what you morons are doing at Jusenkyō. Everybody within a hundred kilometers has reason to be on edge."

"Are you finished?" said Xiu.

"Yeah, but thanks for asking. You're so considerate."

Gritting his teeth, Xiu continued. "The trail from the east does open closer to the base of the mountain. From the initial order to attack, we would be upon the Phoenix hours faster."

"To make up for wasted hours marching around a mountain where even the simplest scout can fly and spot you from ten kilometers away. Can you be more stupid? Move closer to the base of the mountain when you've overcome the initial defenses. You might reduce their response time to your threat by getting closer, but it sure as hell won't be a surprise when they'll have known you were there for even longer. That's nuts."

"Be silent," said Kohl. "Is it Japanese nature to be so disagreeable?"

"Japanese nature? No, it's probably just mine."

"Right." Kohl folded his arms, looking away. "Tendō was much more pleasant."

"What?"

"Let us not be distracted from the topic at hand," said Sindoor. "If the matter of approach is settled, we should—"

Ranma yanked on his ropes, dragging Xiu behind him. He marched to Kohl's feet and glared. "What did you just say?"

"I said Tendō wasn't nearly so contrary and difficult to speak to."

"How the hell do you know that name?"

"Tendō Akane? We captured her at the spring ground. We interrogated her for two days. She told us much about _you_."

"You're lying. You heard the name from an Amazon or something."

Kohl stepped forward, and captain and prisoner stood toe-to-toe. "No, outsider. I was as close to her as I am to you now. I questioned her myself, and the story flowed from her mouth as easily as air."

Ranma shook his head, trembling. "Impossible. Akane wouldn't spill a word to you freaks! She couldn't have known anything!"

"It's true; she knew nothing of use. Unfortunate that we weren't convinced of this before my men beat her and cracked her skull—"

Snap, BANG! Ranma's knuckles crunched against an ice sheet. Kohl shielded himself in a thin, square plane of frost, and Ranma's punches slammed into the barrier harmlessly.

"You bitch! You think a couple pieces of string can really hold me?"

"No." Sindoor rose from her throne, stepping between the combatants. "I'm sure they were just for appearances." She touched a finger to the ice sheet, and the frost receded, melting, dripping on the stone floor. "This, however, is not."

The ropes sprang to life, binding Ranma's wrists once more, but the magic didn't stop there. The threads glowed with heat, melting together, and though Ranma pulled and yanked at the gooey shackles, his hands snapped back in place.

"Lieutenant," said Sindoor, "escort our guest outside until she can control herself."

"Yes, my lady."

The doors at the end of the chamber opened by themselves, and Xiu prodded Ranma along at the point of his staff.

"I'll get you back for this, Wuya!" said the prisoner. "I'll get you back for everything you did to her!"

"Calm yourself, or perhaps we'll send interrogators back to her cell and scour her memory a little more."

A blink. A look of confusion gave way to a smirk and laughter. "You're a bad liar, Wuya. You don't scare me."

The doors banged shut, rumbling through the tower, but the echoes of Ranma's complacent laughter lingered, fading but never quite silent.

"A curious play," said Sindoor. "Tell me, Captain Kohl: what did you mean to prove with that charade?"

"I meant to prove nothing, only to control our dealings with Saotome Ranma rather than let her control them instead. Everything else she said was deception. When she tried to attack me, that—and only that—was real."

"Your mistrust runs deep. Do you always resent those who best you in battle?"

"No, my lady."

"What would you have me do, then? We've gathered much intelligence from her. If even half of it proved true, it would be invaluable toward our goal of taking Saffron."

"I only ask that we _prove_ the truth of what she says. We know what she would tell us. We should verify it ourselves."

"It will be far too late to gather intelligence when we knock on the Phoenix's door."

"Perhaps there is some other form of magic we can use—"

"We do not _use_ magic," said Sindoor. "We draw upon it, but we do not use it. It uses us." She sat down, reclaiming her seat on the Sorcerers' throne. "If you knew this Tendō was an associate of our prisoner, why did you permit her release?"

"It's easier to be victorious when you can convince your enemy not to set foot on the battlefield. I made a gesture in good faith. We couldn't give the Riverfolk Saotome Ranma. I gave them what we could afford and warned them to stay away."

"And in doing so relinquished leverage over our prisoner. We hold no one in the stockade."

"I felt no need to use one prisoner to coerce another."

Sindoor chuckled. "My dear captain, what do you think you just did? You didn't even have Tendō in your custody, yet you used her as the target of a threat."

Kohl flinched. _Just as you would do…_

The Lady's gaze wandered. "Oh, is the Sieve unwell?"

By a torch on the wall, Tilaka braced herself. She breathed heavily, trembling, and curled her fingers into a fist.

Kohl lowered his voice to a whisper, hovering behind her. "Are you ill?"

"No, it was just…very interesting, being here. I don't protect the village anymore, but I can still sense things. Sometimes, it can be too much."

"We should take you outside."

"I'll be fine."

Even so, Kohl took her by the wrist and walked her from the Lady's chambers.

"I don't believe we've finished, captain," said Sindoor.

"I am at your disposal," Kohl called over his shoulder. "I'm prepared to do whatever you ask of me."

"Make the excursion force ready. We should march on the Phoenix as soon as feasible. Saotome Ranma will go with you unless concrete evidence of her treachery arises, and I would not rely on magic to prove it. The misuse of magic causes naught but misery."

_Misery…_ Kohl halted at the double doors. "My lady, if I may ask?"

"You may."

"One of the Riverfolk spoke of a Sorcerer, someone called Bailu."

"Indeed?"

"Who is Bailu?"

"He was part of the old ruling family, from before we chose to isolate ourselves. In the chaos since that time, I don't know what became of him."

"The Riverfolk spoke of Bailu's power."

"The ability to make anything crumble and wither at your touch. A trivial feat of magic, to make cloth and linens burn in one's hands."

"And flesh?"

"That," said Sindoor, "is not so trivial."

Kohl nodded, pushing open the iron gate.

"Captain?"

He stopped.

"Let us not speak of that spell again. There are many forms of ki magic, all of them dangerous if used inappropriately, but that—that is the only spell I forbid anyone of the village to use. Do not speak of it. Do not pursue it. Nothing good comes of that power. It only magnifies the darkness within our hearts."

With that, Kohl shut the double doors behind him. It seemed, in her own way, the Lady had answered his question already.

#

Kohl meditated, thinking, pondering in his mind. For the leader of a tribe of Sorcerers, the Lady had a dim view of magic, but Kohl didn't. In the Sorcerers' library, halfway up the tower, he unfurled old scrolls and relished in stories of ancient feats of magic power: how Queen Songya raised fields of wheat and barley from mere seeds, ending a famine of a hundred days; how the Grand Sorcerer Huangli carved a valley straight from the earth and diverted a nearby stream to flow into it, founding the village for his people. Even Saffron, the fire bird, appeared briefly in the scrolls, but beyond his immortality and reign over fire, the texts said little else. Despite this, Kohl made note of the mention; for every name he recognized, there was one he continued to miss.

Bailu. Never did the scrolls speak of a Sorcerer named Bailu, and aside from folklore and legend, there was nothing in this library that Kohl could place. These tales could've gone back a year, ten years, or a hundred, and he would never have known the difference.

All that existed beyond rumors and stories were the vast descriptions of spells long forgotten—that were no longer needed while the channelers draped the village in their protective Maze—but times had changed. There was a need to know what transpired outside that bubble, the bubble in which they'd drifted, apart from the rest of the world, for the entirety of his life.

_We drift…_

He saw it there, in the library. A solitary character on a scroll—it could mean various things: to flow, to circulate, to drift.

The Maze kept them anchored, like rocks jutting from the bottom of the river, but if the rocks floated, if they could drift and move freely…

They could go anywhere the river took them. They could go anywhere at all.

_It would only take a few of us, a small party to scout the mountain while the rest of us take the long, slow path. Then, when the scouting party meets us in the shadow of the mountain, we will know how Saotome Ranma has deceived us. We'll put this charade to bed._

Later that day, the Sorcerer Captain and seven of her best entered a private chamber within the tower. Armed with scrolls from the tower library, they sat in groups of varying number, humming strange and dissonant chords.

And after many hours of practice and effort, hours covering dusk to dawn, four Sorcerers emerged from a windowless room, a room with but one door.

"I thought I'd warned you, captain."

Kohl nodded to his men, signalling them to go, and faced the voice that called to him alone.

"Warned me, my lady?"

Sindoor peered into the empty room, curdling her nose at the smell of burnt powder. "Against relying upon magic to solve every problem," she said. "We don't use magic. The more we let it use us, the more we open ourselves to sin. You of all people should know this."

"I do what I feel is necessary to protect the village and its ways."

"Resolve alone is inadequate. Perhaps our _ways_ are inadequate."

"My lady, why did you make me captain and more if you do not trust me?"

Lowering her voice, Sindoor leaned closer, whispering in his ear. "You're mistaken, Kohl. You're sadly mistaken, for there is no one else I would trust. Do you not see how all our ways are meant to help us coexist with magic? How the Sieve protects us, how our bodies protect us? For years I've thought that was enough, but now I see that protection failing. I see it fail every time that person enters your sight."

Kohl stiffened. "Because we're without a Sieve."

"One can hope that's all it is." The Lady strolled off, serene and silent.

And Kohl wondered if, like with Ranma, everything Sindoor said was riddles or lies, too.

* * *

**Next:** Cologne and the Phoenix try to stave off the Sorcerer scouts before they can locate Saffron, but in capturing a lone Sorcerer, Cologne learns a terrible secret. Should they learn of it, the Phoenix would never forgive the Amazons. That's why they can never find out. **Amazon and Phoenix find themselves at odds in "Ashes" Part IV - "Scars" - Coming in two weeks: September 10, 2010.**

To my weekly readers, I hope you will forgive this upcoming delay. Though there is enough content in the next installment to justify a longer wait (right now in draft it's the longest single act to date), the truth is that the seven-week buffer I started with at the beginning of "Journey to Jusenkyō" has steadily eroded, and already I've felt the stress and pressure of being unable to consider the chapter as a whole when posting each installment. I had already planned to take a break at the end of chapter seven to outline in more detail later parts of the story and catch up, but for now, I can only warn that a hiatus in _Identity_ may become more common from time to time, especially for these long acts that, if I didn't feel an act should have some sense of closure by itself, would otherwise be split into two and last just that long anyway.

At any rate, I hope you continue to enjoy the story (if you've read this far) and can continue to bear with this regular update experiment I've been doing since April, if you've been reading since then. Thanks all, and I'll see you in two weeks.

_For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at __westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com__, or follow the link in my profile._


	31. Ashes IV: Scars

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** Scouts of the Ki Sorcerers have arrived at Phoenix Mountain, putting the tribesmen on alert, but to keep the Phoenix as her allies, Cologne will have to cross them first.

* * *

**Scars**

_Chapter Five, Act Four_

In the wilderness, there's no glow of city lights. There's only black except where man or God makes fire, where a spark of heat transmutes the elements into warmth and light. That's why, as night shrouded the desolate Tibetan Plateau in naught but starlight, the tribesmen of the Phoenix flew with torches in their claws. They circled the mountain in grand formations and patterns, scouring the countryside for signs of their enemies.

And Cologne watched them fly, feeling her way down the mountain steps with her walking stick. It was Korma who showed her the path to ground, and she followed him closely, lest she tumble off the unrailed stair and plummet to the cold earth below.

After all, it'd be terrible if she broke a leg or two, falling from a hundred meters up. A hundred years of living had done her old bones no favors. She'd fought no small number of battles to test them. She'd trained dozens—hundreds—of eager young warriors in her career and spoken even more unpleasant truths.

In fact, it was on a night like this one, cold and silent, that she'd spoken the most unpleasant truth of all.

"Child," she'd said, "you're promised to the Sorcerer prince Yi."

The girl took it well—as well as any girl could when her grandmother returned from a meeting of the Elders and said nothing more than that to greet her. The evening had been cold, and the Elders meeting fire burned well into the night.

"A gift is required to bring peace," Cologne had said. "I felt, of all those who could be offered, you were the most level-headed. You would handle it best."

The girl had nodded quietly, accepting her grandmother's praise for what it was. The Elders had rewarded maturity with a great duty, after all. To refuse would go beyond simple disrespect—it would go against the quality they thought they saw in her. It would make her a contradiction.

It would make her nothing.

"There is no dishonor in refusing."

A lie. Perhaps the laws of the tribe wouldn't demand it, but through whispers and rumors her peers would hear of it. They would deem her refusal selfish and smear her name with stigma. Cologne knew that, yet there was no other way to say it. Tribe and family are meant to come before the self. To do otherwise is to indulge, to shirk one's duty.

So devoted to her duty was Cologne's granddaughter that she accepted the proposal without hesitation. She went to the Sorcerers and married their prince, and not once did she complain. If she bore any stress or strain from her duty, she shared it not with her family. In her letters, she spoke only of the great honor she felt in pursuing this task. Not happiness, not joy—just honor.

And so Cologne wondered, as she trudged about the grand stair of Phoenix Mountain, what might've happened if her granddaughter had confessed, even in secret, that she felt her mission weighed upon her heart. If she'd been home to relieve her burdens instead of at Yi's side, would she have disappeared along with him? Would a war that scarred a generation have started at all?

There was no answer to that question—no answer but silence in mind and memory, for the images and feelings of twenty years ago she drew in her mind's eye with chalk. The memories were fragile to the touch, after all. They were fragile and still, and though she could trace clearly the figure of a girl in shaky starlight, when the girl's mouth moved, no sound came out. Years of imperfect memory had corrupted the her words. Like the call of a deaf songbird, the sense of it had drifted…

…and drifted…

…until there was nothing left of her voice to remember at all.

"Our patrol found them when we flew over their camp."

Cologne's gaze snapped forward, away from the starry night and black. Ahead of her, Korma marched on, holding a torch within his talon-like fingers.

"They made their campfire in a pit to try to hide the light," he said. "But that wouldn't help them. We don't have owl eyes, but we can still see the flicker of flames in the dark."

That's right. The words and deeds of decades passed weren't important here. The war of the day was between Sorcerer and Phoenix, a quest for Saffron to make him a "Sieve." Already the Sorcerers had made a move, sending some of their number to spy on their target, but now the Phoenix had taken up arms. They swarmed and buzzed about the night sky, their torches like distant beacons in darkness, a warning to all who might see.

"I should've thought bird eyes would be exceptionally acute," she said, sweeping the path before her clear with her walking stick. "The hawk spots his prey while soaring on columns of hot hair, and what looks to man like a speck in a sea of weeds, the hawk spies a mouse and swoops in to strike."

"In daylight, yes, we see very well," said Korma. "At noon, I can see a rat crawl from a hole in the ground in the fields below us, and I can spot it from the top of the mountain. I can see colors that are impossible for you to imagine: blues and purples darker and richer than you can perceive."

"Yes, yes, the kind of rays that give people burns and blisters at the beach. I think I could stand if they burned your wonderful eyes the same way—your wonderful eyes that didn't detect a Sorcerer presence until now."

Korma scowled. "As I said, we see well in daylight. At night, however, things are dimmer, harder to see."

"As they are for most people."

"No, you can't understand—it's worse than human sight. Trust me, I know: get me some cold water, and I can see the difference myself."

"Then your poor night vision is a disadvantage in battle, even if you get to keep your wings and claws."

Torches approached from down the steps. The warriors of the Phoenix limped up the stair, cut and bruised and bleeding. Healthy men helped carry their comrades. They bore the weight of frozen wings and handled the blocks of bone, ice, and feathers gingerly, lest a piece snap off in their hands.

"Maybe so," said Korma, who clung to the interior of the staircase, making room for his brethren. "We sent many to the camp tonight to subdue the enemy we found."

"How many?"

"Fourteen. None dead, thankfully."

"I mean how many Sorcerers."

The precession of wounded passed them, and Korma moved on again.

"One Sorcerer," he said. "We only found one."

"And you say you have a means to extract information from him? Or did you lead me down this path merely on speculation and pretext?"

"Nothing like that. We _can_ get what we need from the prisoner. You can be sure of it."

"And how will you do that?"

Korma smirked. "Captain Keema has her ways."

Cologne huffed. She could tolerate some secrecy for the moment—as long as the Sorcerer proved talkative and accurate, it would be no matter to her what the Phoenix wished to hide. Cologne had many questions to ask—about this Sieve she'd heard of or the magic she'd witnessed that turned flesh to ash and dust.

Too many questions there were, But she could be satisfied with the answer to one—a question that dwarfed all else.

Upon reaching the base of the mountain, the pair descended into small, fire-lit tunnels. It was here the Phoenix hid things that were precious to them: artifacts of centuries gone by, stores of grain and rice that took up a mere fraction of the room they were kept in—perhaps, once upon a time, bags and boxes of food filled that room from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, but no longer.

"Good to see you could make it," said Keema, standing before a gap in the rock. "We're just getting started."

Inside the hole, a solitary Sorcerer sat, resting his head on the rock wall. Scrapes and cuts marred his forehead, his cheek. The light from Keema's torch flickered off his face, and he batted away a stray ember with a flick of the wrist.

"He's not bound?" said Cologne.

"You think bindings do good against their magic?"

"Even without magic, he can grapple with his guards. He can strike an unsuspecting foe."

"He won't," said Keema. "I've made sure of that." She peered into the room. "Prisoner, will you answer my questions?"

"Yes," was the reply, but it was weak and raspy.

"Very good. Tell me, then—who are you?"

"I am a Sorcerer of the Guard. I serve my captain; I serve my lady, Sindoor."

" 'Sindoor'?" said Cologne.

Keema raised an eyebrow. "You know the name?"

"I do not, but it is a name unlike any Sorcerer's I've heard before. Perhaps…"

"Perhaps?"

"It does seem familiar, but…" She shook her head. "Pay me no mind. Let us continue."

"Prisoner," said Keema, "your people come to this mountain, don't they?"

"They do."

"When do they come? How many of you are there? How many are here already, from the camp we found you in or anywhere else?"

"They should set out from the village by sun-up," said the Sorcerer. "It may take two or three days to arrive. They should build a camp beyond the tree line, where the plains are no longer so infertile. They will stay close to the trail west of here. Where the trail bends northward to follow a stream—that is where we were to meet the captain's force."

"He's remarkably forthcoming," said Cologne. "How did you do this? How do you know what he says is reliable?"

"He tells the truth as he knows it," said Keema.

"You know this because…?"

"Because I told him to."

Vague and unhelpful this answer was, yet Cologne couldn't deny the technique's power, whatever the method. Had she known of such a means to interrogate Sorcerers before, the war would've been pointless. As it was, the Amazons marched to the Sorcerers' doorstep, demanding truth and surrender, but the secret of Ceruse and Yi's fate was kept from them, and they were given only a helping of ash instead.

Keema fixed her gaze on the prisoner. "Answer the rest of my questions. What are their numbers? What are yours? How did you get here so fast when the main force is three days behind?"

"We drifted on rivers of ki until they took our bodies where we needed to go."

Keema stared. "You did what?"

"My," said Cologne, stifling a chuckle. "It seems the 'truth as he knows it' can be a mite unhelpful."

"Two hundred."

"Excuse me?" said Keema.

"The four of us were to meet with the main force in three days," said the prisoner. "The Lady thinks we are invincible behind the Maze. She will send a large force to secure the new Sieve. I would guess no fewer than two hundred."

"Two hundred Sorcerers." Cologne shook her head. "Tell me, Captain Keema: do you have nearly three thousand able-bodied warriors to repel them?"

"It seems battle—if it comes—won't be won with superior numbers," said Keema. "That kind of loss would be unacceptable." She turned her gaze to the prisoner again. "What of the other three? Will they head back to the rendezvous point now that one among you has been captured?"

"Perhaps." The Sorcerer coughed, and from a split lip, he spat away a mixture of saliva and blood. "But I doubt it. The task our captain gave us is not yet fulfilled."

"And what task is that?"

"We've learned much about your people, but still we've yet to see Saffron. The captain won't want us to return without having sighted him and confirming what we know."

"I see," said Keema. "It _would_ be foolish to try to take Lord Saffron from us without knowing where he sleeps or how to reach him, wouldn't it? Because of that, you will attack."

"Even three Sorcerers can be very dangerous," said Cologne. "We had some success against them when we could use surprise as a weapon. There will be no such advantage here. They are outnumbered; they know it. We can capture or kill only three of them. Their potential for destruction is much, much greater."

"Then we must prepare my people. We must be vigilant. I will not let even one Sorcerer stand within a hundred paces of Lord Saffron. I'll strike them down myself before they get that close." She marched into the tunnel. "Let us go quickly; I will tolerate no delay."

"If you'd permit me a few more moments?" asked Cologne. "I may be able to extract more information."

"So be it. Stay with the prisoner, Korma; report anything useful to me."

"Yes, captain."

Cologne watched Keema leave and waited long enough to be sure the captain's ears wouldn't hear her words. A clever leader Keema was to capture this Sorcerer; her questions were focused and to the point of defending her tribe, and that Cologne could respect, but no doubt Keema would disapprove of what Cologne would ask the Sorcerer. Her people were her priority; everything else could wait—that's what Keema might say, but some things shouldn't have to wait. Not a day, week, or year. Certainly not twenty years.

"Tell me, Sorcerer," she said, "what do you know of Yi and Ceruse?"

"Who?"

"The Sorcerer Prince and his consort! Do you know nothing of the war of twenty years ago?"

"Those names mean nothing to me. I've never heard them before."

"Never heard them? What stories do your parents tell you as you lie in bed at night?"

"My parents are dead."

Korma scratched his head. "What does all this matter to what they're doing here? Why do you Sorcerers want to see Lord Saffron so badly?"

"Must you ask obvious questions?" said Cologne. "Saffron is their goal; even if it's foolish to stay when we're on to them, the thread of reason—"

"Because all we know of Saffron, outside of myths and legends, comes from _her_."

" 'Her'?" Cologne leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. "Of whom do you speak?"

"She claims she defeated Saffron, that she and she alone can give us the knowledge needed to take him as the Sieve, but the captain is wary of her. The captain wants to know what she says is true."

"What does that mean?" said Korma. "What is he saying? He's talking about Ranma, isn't he? Why would Ranma betray knowledge of Lord Saffron like this?"

Cologne ignored the remark, for the questions demanded answers she already suspected. No, there was a better question to ask at that moment, a question that cut to the crux of the mystery at hand.

"Sorcerer," she said, "if Ranma told you all you know of Saffron, how did you come to choose him as your Sieve?"

The prisoner met her gaze and answered simply, without hesitation.

"Because she told us so."

Korma's eyes flashed. "What…what is this? Lord Saffron fell by Ranma's hand, but that isn't enough for him? He had to sick the Sorcerers on us, too?"

"The truth is hardly so simple, I think." Cologne slipped a hand into her pack, fumbling, fingering the items within. What she needed had to be inside…

"Isn't it? Ranma got taken by them, like you said, so he did the only thing he could do—he told them to go after us, and that works great for you, doesn't it? You think you can use us to fight your war? No way. Captain Keema will hear about this!"

"No," said Cologne, wrapping her fingers over a plastic bottle. "She won't."

THWAP! The walking stick clubbed Korma across his temple.

SPLASH! Water poured over his hair and head; his wings withered and vanished.

"Keema can't hear from you," said Cologne, "what you don't remember to tell her."

She cupped her hand, and from another, squarish bottle, she squeezed out a dab of soap. As Korma staggered, dazed, Cologne rubbed in the shampoo, pulling and tugging at his scalp.

"You're Riverfolk?" said the Sorcerer. "Not Phoenix?"

"Indeed." Cologne sat on Korma's shoulders; the Xi Fa Xiang Gao pacified him, leaving him in a steady trance while she finished the technique. "Does that mean," she asked of the Sorcerer, "that your obedience to Keema demands you attack me?"

"I wasn't told to do such a thing. I was only told to answer questions."

"Then answer you will, with the truth as you know it." She rubbed the film of soap and water between her fingers. "But you may find that you know a little less than you did before."

#

"I don't understand it," said Ryōga. "Every time I looked back at my hand, the Old Maid was there. Why on earth are you all so good at this game?"

Ukyō plucked the lone joker from his hand, adding it to the deck and shuffling. "Akane-chan and I had some amount of practice. Though I admit, that doesn't explain Konatsu."

"Oh, I just snuck the Old Maid into Ryōga-sama's hand whenever he wasn't looking."

The players stared.

"…I thought that was the idea; to slip the Old Maid into the next person's hand."

"By having them take it!" said Ukyō. "Not by swapping cards under the table!"

Konatsu blinked. "But we're not sitting at a table."

Ukyō wiped the dust from the stone floor away. "Somebody cut the deck, will you?"

Shampoo cleanly took the top half and set it down on Ukyō's side of the pile. "This game boring," she said. "Why we play this still?"

Mousse jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Because Keema and her goons are slow and indecisive."

At the foot of the Phoenix throne, Keema gathered her men in a circle. She illustrated her orders for them on a large, square sheet of paper that lay outstretched on the floor, and the Phoenix under her wing nodded carefully with each step.

"I'll agree with that," said Ukyō, dealing out the cards. "They tell us to get ready to fight, but now we have to wait for them to put a plan together?" She rubbed her eyes lazily. "I'd rather have had a few more winks and sleep off the hike."

Shampoo pushed her pile of cards away. "No can sleep, but I want play different game."

"You have an idea?" asked Ryōga.

"Is…what you call? 'Poker'?"

"Sounds fine to me," said Mousse. "At least poker has a little less luck involved. We can improvise some chips."

"Chips? No use chips."

"What do we bet with, then?" asked Akane.

Shampoo slipped off her shoe and tossed it into the center of the group.

"And when we're barefoot and shoeless?"

She hopped to her feet, fingering her waistband. There was a flash of white lace and—

"Whoa now!" Ukyō caught Shampoo's wrist. "That's not _just_ poker."

"Is not?"

"No, is not."

Mousse pounded a fist on the floor. "Kuonji, you fool! Why did you make her stop?"

"It's not like Shampoo would be getting naked for you," said Ukyō. "I'm pretty sure the first one to get naked around here would be the guy who can't see the cards he's holding."

"That may be, but at least _I_ wasn't the one left holding the Old Maid."

"That's not my fault!" said Ryōga.

Such trivial acts—finger pointing, card swapping, and impromptu stripping—had characterized the long wait while Keema and Cologne questioned the prisoner, and though Keema has long since returned to the mountaintop to instruct her men, for now, the group of Amazon and Japanese visitors could only bicker and quarrel over cards.

Perhaps it was just the sort of levity needed to calm the mind when battle could come at any moment.

As her friends argued over the improprieties of strip poker, Akane let her eyes droop and breathed slowly. Like Ukyō, the long hike had drained her; they'd had precious little time to recover from marching back and forth to Jusenkyō. How bizarre it was to be restless when the night was quiet and calm yet drowsy when the time for battle was nigh. It seemed her mind found no solace in either state. Busy or not, it still wished for something else.

Maybe a game of strip poker?

Akane laughed to herself. That would be more than a little inappropriate, to say nothing of what the Phoenix would do or say as the players lost their clothes with each round.

But, if they were back home…

If they were back home, Shampoo would be the first to flaunt her perfect body—not because she'd lose at cards but as a choice. She would lie on her stomach, with only the cards in her hand to conceal a view any man would savor.

Ukyō might run into a bad stretch of luck and end up in nothing but panties and chest bindings for her trouble. Though she suppressed her bust out of habit, her legs were creamy and unblemished. No doubt if she wore a skirt to school for a change, she would really clean up. In fact, the boys at school might not even know it was here, save for the spatula strapped to her back.

With two such attractive examples of femininity willing to please him any way he wanted, why should Ranma want anyone else? Why should he want a girl whose bust failed to surpass even his own? Why should he look a pair of legs that were scuffed and tarnished by brawling? Maybe no one else saw the scars, but Akane felt them around her knees, her ankles. All it took was one wrong landing, one bad kick that struck jagged rock or worse. It didn't matter if the wounds had healed, if the scars were nearly invisible—she knew they were there.

No doubt Ranma had his share of scars, too—one or two of which he'd earned for Akane's sake. Some people are loved despite the scars they bear; others are loved _because_ of them. Akane could love Ranma for his scars, but of Akane's scars, the only ones that mattered lay beneath her skin. That day in the rain, the wounds they'd covered ripped open, and naught but madness and rage bled out. Even now, those wounds pulsed with her heartbeat. Saving Ranma wouldn't be enough to close them back again. That would take something within herself. Only then would she be deserving of a touch.

And she did crave his touch. In her dreams, he'd caressed her bare shoulder, drawing circles on her skin with his fingertips.

"Tendō!"

Her eyes snapped open. Her cheeks flushed. Her head spun back and forth, searching for the source of the voice.

"With me," said Cologne, tapping her walking stick on the floor. "Now!"

Amid puzzled stares and undealt cards, Akane and the others climbed to their feet, brushing the dust from their clothes.

"Not all of you," said Cologne. "Just Tendō."

She beckoned Akane to the top of a shaded stair, out of sight from Keema and the Phoenix throne.

"What is it?" asked Akane. "Did something happen?"

Cologne pursed her lips. "Tell me, Tendō: when Ranma visited you in your dreams, did you actually discuss the crisis before us, or did you merely play games of hen and cock to pass the time?"

Fighting down a blush, Akane balled her hands into fists. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I detest surprises, Tendō; every great warrior does, for to be surprised is to realize you have no control of the flow of battle. So I think you can imagine my surprise—and how much I disliked it—when I questioned the Sorcerer prisoner and learned it was none other than _Ranma_ who set these events in motion, hm? That it was he who told the Sorcerers who their Sieve must be?"

Akane blinked. The images had passed through her mind like a collage. Scrambled and jumbled, it was as if a deranged artist had snipped them from magazines and pasted them together.

"He just told them what they already knew," said Akane. "He told them he could help them capture Saffron, but all he's told them are lies!"

"I doubt that distinction matters to the Phoenix, child. The boy Korma was livid to hear this, and I suspect Keema, would react much the same. These people are without their leader, their champion, their king. They are hungry, they are desperate, and now they must hold off magic they've never seen. Were I in their place, I'd be enraged, too."

"Wait. If Korma knows, why won't he tell Keema?"

Cologne opened her bag, revealing the numbered bottle of shampoo that lay within.

"You remember it, don't you? The Phoenix aren't immune to it, but I doubt this bottle alone will cure all our ills." She shook the bottle by her ear, listening. "No, there isn't enough to wipe the memories of an army." She leaned to the edge of the doorway. "Shampoo! Mousse!"

"What are you doing?" asked Akane.

"If the Phoenix turn on us for this deed, none of us are safe. Ranma will wither in the Sorcerers' custody and perish. Are you prepared to do what you must to ensure his survival?"

"O-of course."

"Truly?" Cologne scoffed. "I doubt that. Unless you glimpse your own heart and see the emptiness that will overtake you when he's gone, you cannot be ready. Nothing short of that will suffice."

Shampoo peered into the stairwell, with Mousse looking over her shoulder. "Great-grandmother?"

The Amazon matriarch motioned them to come inside. "Excuse us, Tendō. This is Amazon business." Effortlessly, Cologne switched to Chinese, rattling off instructions to Mousse and Shampoo in stride. Akane was cut from the conversation before she'd even stepped away.

_Glimpse into my heart…and see emptiness…_

In the throne room, Keema's council of strategists and advisors adjourned. The lieutenants of the Phoenix took wing and leapt off the lonely ledge into the night.

_They go to fight, and so do I. I know well enough what it'll mean if Ranma's gone. I don't need an old woman to remind me of that. I'm ready._

"You four." Where Ukyō, Mousse, and Konatsu sat, Masala stood tall, and a clawed finger signalled to Akane that she should listen as well. "Captain Keema wants you and your Amazon friends to prove your worth here. Think you can handle that?"

Ryōga hissed, throwing a hand of cards down. "I think I'd rather try than keep getting spanked at poker."

"Then you'll have your chance," said Keema. "The Phoenix fly to end this Sorcerer threat before Lord Saffron's chambers are uncovered. I've had him moved and the location guarded with many men and heavy barricades. Even so, I feel we should meet the enemy and make him fight for every step." She looked about. "Where is Cologne? I'd thought I saw her."

"Here," said the Amazon matriarch, standing in the doorway to the staircase.

"Korma doesn't return with you?"

"He still has questions of the prisoner."

Keema laughed. "He would have questions of a flytrap. Very well then. Come, and bring your charges with you. We have Sorcerers to capture—or kill if we must."

Cologne pressed her lips together and said nothing.

#

The Phoenix divided their forces into three broad groups: a contingent guarded Saffron's secret chambers, deep within the bowels of the mountain; a second, roaming party patrolled the outer passages and slopes; and a larger, more heavily equipped battalion scoured the plains at the foot of the peak, defending the small farms and settlements outside the mountain proper, for though the crops and livestock might be unimportant to the Sorcerers, they were vital to the Phoenix. It was a potential for damage and loss they couldn't ignore.

KA-BANG!

And, it seemed, to distract from their real target, the Sorcerers wouldn't ignore it either. Burning bits of wood fizzled and smoked in the night. The sparse, struggling crops took the flame and charred. A fireball mushroomed skyward, and as the Phoenix people darted and swarmed around the Sorcerer scout, their target dashed into shadows, tracking fire in his wake.

"What a mess," said Ryōga, stomping out embers as he gave chase. "These Sorcerers must want to make the world hell before they die, so they don't go quietly."

"Ryōga have it wrong," said Shampoo, who ran with her chúi in both hands. "Sorcerer not like that."

"They're not making a mess of things?"

"He is, but is not because he think he may die." She snuffed out a piece of burning pitch that landed on her shoulder. "This exactly what Sorcerer want—chaos."

The Phoenix flew after the invader. Bowstrings pulled taut and launched a hail of arrows, whose heads twinkled in firelight, but despite the rain of wood and iron around him, the Sorcerer dashed on, untouched.

"So many shots; none of them worth anything." Ryōga took his umbrella by the handle and unfurled a set of bandanas. "This won't be settled with arrows. Shampoo, cover me from the left; drive him toward the mountain. I'm going to get some height."

"Ryōga go to climb Mount Everest?"

"Not that far!"

"No can be sure with you."

Did people think he _wanted_ to lose himself all the time?

No matter. Ryōga made for the sheer face of Mount Phoenix, leaping atop the sloped roof of a building at the base. He jumped along staircases and rooftops, gaining height and distance on the battle below. Shampoo and the Phoenix could keep the Sorcerer busy. They were like darting, buzzing flies, with the Sorcerer's blasts of fire and ice warding them off like repellent, but even someone who had no wings to fly with could make a difference here.

These Sorcerers—they were the people who held his father, after all. These were people he'd heard stories about as a child, but we all forget our bedtime stories. They become hopelessly entangled in our memories, where tales of faithful pets and magical faeries fade in the blur and haze of time.

Besides, bedtime stories wouldn't tell him how to fight this Sorcerer. That he would have to devise himself.

Umbrella in one hand, bandanas in the other, he peered over the rail-less stair, watching the battle below. Lightning struck and scorched the earth. Fire claimed the springtime seedlings, making tiny spots of light in the dark. The Sorcerer wrought havoc, yet from this height, he was so small.

The Sorcerer may have had his attention on the flying Phoenix people, but would he expect something quieter?

He stuffed the bandanas into his pocket and opened the umbrella, gripping the end with both hands.

_Father, Akane-san…I go now for both of you! _

He stepped off the edge, and the umbrella caught air. It was sturdy, you see. It was strong. Never had this umbrella failed him, after all. It protected him from water and rain, kept his curse a secret from the innocent girl who should never know. The umbrella was strong and sturdy; it would hold his weight.

Pity, then, that it was heavier than a bowling ball.

…heavier than ten bowling balls. The laws of physics are inconvenient like that. Even for a person like Ryōga, who could survive being attacked with a two-ton boulder, the math was deceivingly simple: weight down must be balanced by upward drag. Drag increases with falling speed. One falls faster and faster until drag catches up. This is terminal velocity, as any skydiver can attest. With a parachute, terminal velocity is something survivable—no faster than the speed of a minivan for a family of four on a neighborhood street, but when your "parachute" is, in fact, an extremely, _extremely_ heavy umbrella…

Well, it's more like screaming down the Autobahn right before a hairpin turn, and as the rushing air ruffled Ryōga's shirt and hair, the horror of the scenario hit him dead on:

_This was a bad idea._

The ground spiraled toward him, a shimmering haze of smoke and fire and cold, hard earth.

_This was a _very_ bad idea! _

He squirmed. He grabbed at the umbrella shaft and kicked at air, but neither of these slowed his decent. They just made him wobble and spin.

_Even if this doesn't kill me, I'll be meat for the Sorcerer down there. I'll be easy to finish off. I won't see Akane-san again. I won't be there to protect her, even while she risks her life for Ranma. Damn you! Damn you, Ranma! Why do you stand in the way of our happiness? I never even got to tell Akane-san how I feel…_

The burden of these feelings weighed on him, forming lumps in his throat and chest.

If anything, they were making him fall faster. Emotions were heavy, after all. They had energy.

They wanted to sink.

_That's it! _

He grasped the top of the umbrella shaft, just under the canopy, and swung himself around. These energies within him—they wanted to sink, but maybe, just maybe, he could make _sinking_ work to his favor. Down and up were relative things, after all. If he pointed down instead of up, maybe the feelings would go up as well.

He kicked again and collapsed the umbrella, flipping end over end. He spread his arms to right himself and then pointed his hands and head straight to the ground.

_I'm going to die! I'm going to die, and Akane-san will never know my love for her! She'll go off with Ranma, and they'll be laughing at me! They'll go off and have children, and I'll be gone…_

There was a glow of pink and purple light.

_Yes! _

Behind him.

_What? _

That is to say, _above_ him. Unfortunately, Hibiki Ryōga, when a ball of ki sinks with gravity, it always comes from above and goes down. Yes, even if you turn your whole body upside down.

_Oh shit! _

(Note: cosmetic surgeries, private nursing, hearing aids, and skydiving with the Shishi Hokōdan may not be covered by your health insurance. Please consult your policy for more information.)

There was a glow of pink and purple light.

There was a pink and purple splat.

And Ryōga? Well, his bruises were more purple than pink.

"Help?" He crawled from the impact crater, dragging himself forward by his arms. "Is this…is this heaven?" He winced. "No, this hurts too much to be heaven."

There was a rustling, scraping sound. A form, a figure, shrouded in black, picked itself up from the rubble and retrieved a long, thin stick.

Ryōga stuck his hand in his pocket, fishing for a bandana to throw, but his fingers shook. Numb and clumsy, they wiggled and twitched, grabbing nothing.

The Sorcerer approached, wobbly, woozy. He emerged from the dust and leveled the tip of his staff on Ryōga, and from an open hand, he channeled magic into—

Flick!

…into three iron arrowheads that speared through his chest.

The Sorcerer collapsed, tumbling to the bottom of the crater.

"Well," said Shampoo, strapping the bow to her back. "That Sorcerer not so tough."

And Ryōga collapsed too. "I could disagree!"

"Cannot disagree much." Shampoo offered him a hand, yanking him to his feet. "Ryōga no dead yet."

He winced, cradling his ribs. "Not yet."

The Phoenix warriors swooped in, surveying the wreckage, and Shampoo led Ryōga away, to rest as he sat on a boulder away from the scene.

"Too bad," said Ryōga. "I think, if we could've taken him alive, I'd have liked to ask about my father, about the time he spent with them."

Shampoo stared at the crater. "Yes," she said. "Too too bad we kill him. Too bad."

#

Meanwhile, midway up the mountain…

KA-PAM! A fireball punched through a mountainside home, blowing holes in the ceiling and floor. Stonework shattered, and a spray of pebbles and dust showered the unlucky combatants.

"Follow me!" said Masala. "After that Sorcerer, go!"

"Um, slight problem here?" said Mousse. "We can't fly?"

With Masala in the lead, a half-dozen warriors of the Phoenix took wing and soared through the wreckage, chasing their enemy through the starry night.

Mousse frowned. "He does realize we can't fly, right?"

"I doubt he was thinking about that," said Ukyō. "Come on; we'd best take the long way."

The "long way" was a trek on foot over winding stairs and through tunnels in flickering torch light. Even a man at full sprint can't match the flight speed of a bird for long. The dogfight in the sky outpaced the group of Ukyō, Konatsu, and Mousse, who found the next in-built house and platform in shambles when they arrived.

"Wonderful," said Ukyō, leaning against the door frame to catch her breath. "We're not getting anywhere with this."

"You have a better idea?" said Mousse.

"Leave it to the Phoenix. We're tiring ourselves out for nothing."

"And let them enjoy all the action? Not a chance!"

Ukyō rolled her eyes. "Gee, I didn't know you were so hungry for battle."

"Oh!" Konatsu fumbled with his belt. "I have an idea. Ukyō-sama and I might still have to run and try to catch the Sorcerer, but Mousse-sama can keep up with him easily."

"Really?" said Mousse. "How's—"

Splash. Konatsu dangled an open canteen over what used to be Mousse's body.

Quack, went the duck, fighting its way from empty clothes. Quack quack quack!

"You've got to admit it," said Ukyō. "This way, you can fly after the Sorcerer all on your own."

Quack!

"What's that?" Ukyō stifled a laugh. "I can't hear you."

Quack quack!

"I think he's saying he doesn't want to end up roasted," said Konatsu.

Quack!

"Well, I _have_ made roast duck okonomiyaki before."

The duck brandished a throwing knife within its feathers.

"Save it for the Sorcerer. Come on, Konatsu."

The kunoichi trotted after his master diligently, and the two of them disappeared into the halls. "You didn't seem too surprised he had a knife," Mousse heard as they left.

"You didn't know he could do that?"

"It's just…hiding weapons up your sleeves is one thing. As a duck, where does he…?"

"I don't think I want to know."

The voices faded, and in the crumbling rom, the duck they left behind bowed its head.

_So this is the life of an Amazon,_ he thought. _Let me fight until I die, and when I do, serve me in orange sauce. Tasty._

Let it never be said that Mousse didn't do what was asked of him, that he hadn't served the tribe and Shampoo to the best of his ability. Surely his rivalry with Ranma had made him a better man, a more competent warrior. Even without Shampoo on his arm, as long as he could see clearly with his own two eyes, he'd stand tall among his peers, worthy of respect and earning it.

From all but Shampoo, anyway.

In the stairwell outside the Phoenix throne, she'd listened to her great-grandmother dutifully. She accepted the command from her elder without hesitation or question. She nodded and took off with Ryōga.

She didn't acknowledge Mousse. She acted like he wasn't there. She brushed past him, making him teeter on the top stair, and said nothing. Not "excuse me," or "I'm sorry." Nothing. Only Ranma pleased her. Only he brought sweetness to her smile, a sultry swagger to her walk.

It was for Ranma that Cologne had pulled them aside that day. It was for Ranma that Mousse sat as a duck in a deserted, shattered room. Defeat the Sorcerers, protect the tribe, save Ranma. It all came back to Ranma, and their survival—Mousse and Shampoo's—depended on it, Mousse yet balked to do it. Though he'd joined this journey knowing Ranma would lie at the end of it, now he balked. He balked because the girl he wished to please wouldn't care if he tumbled down a mountain of stairs and screamed on the way down.

In the face of that, can one care to save himself at all?

Perhaps that's what surprised him most—that he kept going. Nothing was over, nothing was _permanent_, until Shampoo had bedded Ranma and made their lawful marriage whole.

In theory. Even if that day never came, who was to say Shampoo wouldn't turn her eye to someone else—anyone else—and ignore him once more?

Maybe, then, it would be better to go at life without illusions—to fly, not to fall, because if you fall all your life, you have to pretend (or forget) that there's no ground to hit you on the way down.

And so, Mousse flew, flapping his small duck wings in the night. Fire and lightning punctuated the black. Jagged bolts zapped bird-men from the sky, and flames ate at the mountainside, like blood from an oozing wound. Flying high above him, a Sorcerer floated, surrounding himself in a fiery shell. Arrows crackled and exploded on impact.

_This is what I do for our people because they ask it of me._

He circled above the Sorcerer, silent, waiting. From his wings, he let out lengths of chain. That was his strength: to hide things, to hide himself, and he would use it here. Konatsu was right: without wings to keep up with the Sorcerer, what he planned now would never succeed. The Sorcerer would just run away, now…

PAM-PAM-PAM!

Chain links hammered the fire shield. The barrier crackled. The iron popped and deflected, flashing with white heat.

The Sorcerer buckled, recoiling, but once he regained his composure, he faced Mousse. He tossed fireballs, but they only singed the duck's tailfeathers.

_Yow! Damn you! Now I won't be able to sit for a week! _

The chains pounded on the fire shield, rattling off with high-pitched clink sounds. The Sorcerer's barrier glowed at the front, and his hands glowed with white sparks.

_All right, Phoenix pricks! He's bringing all his energy to stop me, so will somebody please SHOOT THIS BASTARD before I'm fried and served with onions and bean sauce? _

Flick PAM thud! The fire shield, weakened and thin at the rear, exploded as the arrow plowed through it. Sparks showered aimlessly in all directions. The Sorcerer lurched; the arrowhead stuck in his back.

_Thank you! _ Mousse sped forward, capitalizing on this opening. He wrapped his target in chains, pecking (as much as a duck bill would) at the Sorcerer's nose and eyes.

Flailing, scrambling, the pair floated erratically. They crashed into the mountain, bashing through solid rock to breach a narrow passage.

_You don't like that, do you? You thought it'd be easier if you were nibbled to death by cats? _

"Hey, duck boy!" The warriors of the Phoenix swooped into the breach. Taking the lead, Masala handled a small egg between his fingers. "Get out of the way!"

Mousse yanked his chains free and scampered. The surikomi egg engulfed the Sorcerer, trapping him within a hard shell.

"Not bad for a duck," said Masala. "Maybe you'd be better off staying like that."

Mousse quacked.

"Right." Masala motioned to his men. "Let's get the duck some hot water!"

A tea kettle and a borrowed robe later, Mousse reunited with Ukyō and Konatsu, and together, the three of them stood guard over the egg as Masala's men worked to assess the damage from the battle.

"You sure you don't want to pop this thing now?" said Mousse, tapping on the eggshell.

"Captain Keema would have me fried if anyone but her did it," said Masala. "She'll be here soon; once we make sure the passageway above won't collapse."

"Masala!" A Phoenix tribesman called to his superior. "Some of the spring water is leaking through!"

"Great." Masala marched off, mumbling to himself. "Just what we need—to lose all our water through a split in the rock face…"

_We all have responsibilities,_ thought Mousse. _Don't think you're an exception, Masala. I'm not._

A gust of wind poured through the breach in the passageway, sending greetings from the frigid night outside and below. "Can't we get out of here?" said Ukyō, folding her arms, shivering. "I'd like to get somewhere warmer, somewhere I won't feel like I could take one wrong step and fall."

"I don't understand." Konatsu put his face close to the eggshell. "Does it just trap the Sorcerer inside?"

"Maybe, if you give it love and affection, it'll gain a level and evolve into something less barbaric," said Ukyō.

"It's mind control," said Mousse. "Whoever the hatchling sees first, it will obey without question unless you willfully release it. That must be how they turned the other one. All they had to do was get Keema there when they hatched him, and he told her all she wanted to know."

"Well." Konatsu patted the eggshell. "Having another can't hurt."

Mousse eyed the gap. How high up where they? A hundred meters? Maybe two? He could take some punishment, no doubt, but a fall from that height would be unpleasant, to say the least. A fall unprepared, without conditioning or techniques to cushion the blow—

"Hello, Mousse?" Ukyō waved a hand before his face. "We're going below; apparently there's a platform we can rest on while they look for the third."

"Oh, of course." Mousse crouched at the knees, placing both hands on the surikomi egg. "Help me with this? Seems best not to leave it here with all this rubble."

"All right. Keep your end up, and I'll keep up mine." She lifted the far end and backed down the passage, looking over her shoulder to check for to check for obstacles.

Mousse snuck his hands under the egg. His sleeves dangled open.

_Even if it helps Ranma, I do what I'm told._

A length of chain shot out!

"Gah!" Ukyō's foot slid out from under her; she slipped. The egg bounced off hard rock, tumbling, rolling.

It rolled right out the hole in the wall, flipping end over end as it fell.

…_for now._

#

"So," said Keema. "Two of the three scouts we sought are dead."

Masala, kneeling before his captain, nodded to affirm it. "The Amazon said the egg just slipped, but no one else really saw what happened."

Keema paced about the throne room, tapping a claw on her temple. "And the other one? The Sorcerer Shampoo slew?"

"If she'd waited for our people to arrive, we might've captured that one, too."

" 'Might have.' " Keema scowled. "What am I to judge from the bodies of dead Sorcerers, Masala? You and I would both do the same; we kill the enemy first. We only capture him if we can justify the risk."

"But we don't kick our enemies off the side of the mountain to watch them splat at the bottom."

Keema shot him a glance.

"At least, not unless they deserve it."

"True," said Keema. "Very true."

The throne room was quiet, for most of the Phoenix who could fight were on guard elsewhere. That's why, when footfalls echoed through the stair to her throne, Keema heard them immediately.

"Who's there?"

His hair damp, Korma trudged up the last step.

"You're wet," said Keema. "And you've been with the prisoner far too long. Did he do this?"

Korma blinked. "Prisoner?"

"Yes, the Sorcerer prisoner. Did you learn something else of value from him? And why haven't you found some hot water? Go get your wings back."

"I don't know anything about a prisoner," said Korma, puzzled. "I don't know…how I got to be wet."

Keema frowned. "Come here, child."

"Captain?"

"Come, quickly!"

Perplexed, Korma trotted forward.

And Keema ran her fingers through his hair.

"Interesting," she said. "It feels fine to the touch. Smooth, almost silky."

Korma tensed. "Um, captain—"

She leaned over him, touching her nose to his head, and sniffed. "What a fresh fragrance…"

"You know, Captain Keema…" Korma glanced away, for while Keema combed through his hair, something else lay squarely at eye level. "I've always thought highly of you too and all, but—"

Smash! A tea kettle crumpled atop Korma's head.

"I'd punish you more for being foolish," said Keema, "but this time, your idiocy isn't your fault. Your mind has been purged of something." She frowned. "Where is Cologne? I think I'd like to see her about this."

Masala shuddered. "She's gone with Lord Saffron…"

#

At Saffron's chambers, where Cologne and Akane stood ready with the elite royal guard of the Phoenix, awaiting the attack of the third and final free Sorcerer.

"Are you sure they'll come?" asked Akane. "I mean, so deep inside the mountain—how will they know where to look?"

"They won't." Cologne leaned against her walking stick, eyes darting down each corridor. "Two will distract and draw forces away from the mountain's core. After that, it will be up to the third to scour this place until he runs into a specific density of forces. The Phoenix would be foolish, after all, to leave Saffron unguarded. At that point, only battle will decide our fates. In this tight, enclosed space, only six men, at most, can reach a single foe with their hands. This all plays to the Sorcerer's advantage. In open air, he could attack from any direction. In here, he need only draw the guards into a tight tunnel and obliterate them. Either way, the Sorcerer inflicts grave losses. He might even win."

Akane looked around. The warriors of the Phoenix carried spears and bows. They were strong and fierce. Their wings could shield them from blows or beat an enemy away.

"What did you bring me here for?" Akane asked Cologne. "To help fight with them?"

"To keep you in my sight."

A low rumble. Torches flickered. Patrols in groups of four circled the sealed-off chambers, walking a clockwise path. Six more men watched the watched the bulky, barred-off double door, three to a side, with Cologne and Akane among them.

"It does seem awfully quiet," said Akane, "if a Sorcerer's supposed to attack."

"They are tricky foes," said Cologne. "But I wouldn't let the stillness put you ill at ease."

Another rumble—a soft, brief vibration. Torchlight danced and wavered.

Cologne looked to the lead guard. "Tell me: how many men are inside, protecting Saffron?"

"Excuse me?"

"The men inside—are they equipped to deal with a Sorcerer should he breach this door?"

"He won't get through the door."

Rumble. Dust jittered on the stone floor.

"Arrogance? How amusing. But we must be serious. If the door is breached, they must be in good defensive position—"

"Twenty of Captain Keema's best bear arms inside Lord Saffron's chambers. If they can't protect him, no one can."

Rumble. The ceiling shook, and loosened pebbles wafted down. Akane eyed the ceiling carefully and brushed the litter from her shoulders. "This isn't right. Don't you think something's wrong?"

"I'm sure it's just a sign of battle elsewhere," said Cologne.

"But it's getting closer…"

Cologne poked the guard with her walking stick. "I'm only asking for a moment inside to inspect the defenses. My experience with the Sorcerers is much greater than yours, and—"

"No one enters without Captain Keema's order."

"Is that right." Cologne narrowed her eyes. "So be it." She took Akane by the hand and marched down the corridor. "Come, Tendō. Some movement will soothe your nerves. You must be prepared for battle, not jittery."

Rumble. Akane swayed on her feet. "I'm telling you—something's happening!"

"Without a doubt." A patrol of Phoenix tribseman passed. Cologne lowered her voice to a whisper. "But keep that to yourself. Speak not of it."

"Why not? Aren't we trying to stop the Sorcerer? Aren't we trying to help them?"

"We're here to help _Ranma_. We're here to help ourselves. The only reason these people are involved is because Son-in-law chose to entangle them, nothing more. Don't get confused, Tendō: these people aren't your friends."

"I know that."

"Do you?" Cologne pressed a palm to the wall, absorbing the vibrations in the stone. "No, this is wrong. They're not coming from this direction."

"What are you talking about?"

"Sorcerers need not see with their eyes to know the way and shape of things to come, child. I don't doubt this Sorcerer knows we're here, even without having walked these halls for himself."

"You didn't say anything about that!"

"Very perceptive." She yanked her hand from the wall surface. "No, this is the wrong direction. He must be coming from—"

BANG! The corridor rocked. Chunks of stone crumbled and fell to the floor. A dust cloud wafted through the hallway, yet but for the Cologne and Akane, the passage was clear.

"Not here?" said Akane, studying the damaged ceiling. "He isn't here?"

"This collapse was merely a symptom, I think," said Cologne. "A symptom of a greater blast elsewhere."

"Where?"

Cologne knocked a knuckle on the inside wall, the slab of rock that protected Saffron's chambers. "The walls are thick here. You would hear nothing of what transpires inside."

"Then how can we know—"

BAM! At the point of her index finger, Cologne shattered a chunk of wall, carving out a niche to move forward. "Stay behind me," said Cologne. "I'll keep us both safe."

BAM BAM BAM! Her bare finger cracked and crumbled rock like it was brittle, flimsy glass, and with her walking stick, Cologne batted away loose pebbles and fragments that might stray into her path. They blasted a tunnel from solid rock, leaving the light of torches behind—at least, until the Breaking Point punched out a hole in the other side, for only then was there light.

White light. The light of ten thousand volts bolting through the air, frying anything that would yield a path to ground.

The bolt charred the tunnel wall. "Inside, quickly!" said Cologne, yanking Akane into the room.

The walls were scored and blackened. The Phoenix's best had fallen, victims of some incredible blast.

Victims of a lightning bomb that zapped the life from their bodies, for the black burn marks on the walls were the same as the ones the bolts left—the bolts that barreled for Akane and broke down the space where her head used to be.

"Look alive, Sorcerer!" WHAM! Cologne's walking stick bashed the enemy at the knee. "There are two of us here, you know!"

Amid bolts of lightning, fireballs, and ice spikes, Cologne hopped and darted, dodging the Sorcerer's attacks. She kicked off the far wall and lunched inward with an outstretched fist.

CRUNCH! The Sorcerer tumbled, flipping head over heels into the wall.

"Don't stand there, Tendō!" said Cologne. "Grab a weapon; that won't deter him for long!"

Akane scavenged a spear from a downed Phoenix warrior, and with two hands on the stick, she charged!

SCHWING! The tip scratched against stone, but the Sorcerer ducked and backpedaled. Panels of ice blocked Cologne's speedy punches, and the Sorcerer sidestepped each thrust and jab of the spear like they were in slow-motion.

_Come on! I don't need more people in my life acting like Ranma! _ Akane twirled the spear over her head, spinning it with bone-crunching velocity. She gripped the handle and swung!

SMASH! The spear pounded the rock wall, but the Sorcerer jumped away unscathed.

And then there was the matter of the point getting lodged in the rock.

_No! _

The Sorcerer opened his fist, and the air rippled at his will. KA-PAM!

Akane crumpled. Like a paper doll, she blew away, but unlike paper, her body had inertia, had weight. When the rock stopped her, it wouldn't give—not very much. Her body, however, had give. It had given enough to bend, to be squeezed.

WHAM! She hit the corner flat on her back, like a schoolgirl making an angel in the snow. As gravity pulled her down again, her feet gave way, and she fell instead to her knees, blinking, woozy.

The room blurred. Flashes of red and white lit up the haze, but her eyes wouldn't clear. The sounds of battle—of bone striking against flesh, of metal scraping across wood—came to her as muffled, garbled noise.

"Come on, Akane."

It was a familiar voice, a voice she treasured. The room was clouded and dim, but the person who spoke to her—the image of that person—was sharp and clear.

"Get up," said the pigtailed girl, offering a hand. "You can't just sit here."

Akane rubbed her eyes, but the world before her shimmered in a sparkling haze. She reached out blindly, grabbing a handhold in the rough, jagged rock. She shook her head, catching her breath. "Is this why you told me not to come? Because you knew I couldn't take it?"

"You've survived worse. I know you can take a beating."

"Then why?"

"Just because I know that in my head doesn't mean it won't hurt. It's worse when you have to watch someone take a blow than it is to get hit yourself. You know that."

Which is why it made sense to take some of that pain for yourself. Akane eased herself off the wall.

But a twinge in her arm stopped her. From a scrape below her left elbow, blood seeped out, collecting in small red dots. It was a shallow wound, nothing that would cripple her, but the area was pink and tender. It would heal, of course, but it could well be a long time before it faded to match the skin's natural hue.

And Akane thought, if only for a moment, she might like it that way. Ranma had earned his own scars to protect her, to keep her safe, and maybe, if they went home again, if she could save him and get away from this place, he would touch her arm and know what the scar by her elbow meant. He would touch her, and he'd love her for it.

"Well, it'd help if you saved me first."

Akane shot the figment of her mind a bemused look, but the image of Ranma wasn't there at all. Not in the flesh, not in physical form—just as a voice in the back of her mind.

"I'm always with you, Akane. I'm with you as long as you carry me in your heart."

She smiled. It was a pleasant thought that would sustain her through trials, through the chaos of battle.

_Battle? _

Wasn't there supposed to be some sort of battle?

"Tendō! Are you done sleeping on the job?"

ZAP ZAP BANG! Thunder rattled her ears. Lightning crackled the air and sizzled. Cologne hopped from corner to corner, dodging the bolts.

"Perhaps you forget what the stakes are? You can rest for another minute if you like!"

That's right. The Sorcerer who broke in from the ceiling, whose lightning struck down all the Phoenix defenders within. The Sorcerer's target lay sleeping in that room with them, cuddled comfortably in a woven straw basket.

He was the baby Saffron, the being the Sorcerers would make their Sieve. He hatched from an egg just a couple weeks before…

And it was an egg Akane saw—no bigger than a chicken's egg—that rolled at her feet.

"Surikomi…?"

That was it. Capture this Sorcerer; don't try to beat him and let him defeat you instead. Don't let him get away with knowledge of Saffron's bedchambers.

She snatched the egg and took a fighting dagger with the other. She lunged at the Sorcerer, punching with a closed fist and swiping with the cold metal blade. All it would take was an opening—a weakness however slight.

ZAP! Lightning shot from the Sorcerer's fingertips, arcing through the air.

And it coursed through her skin, taking the quickest path to ground. It forced her jaw shut, so she couldn't scream. It lit fires on her nerves, from the tip of her head to the ends of her toes. Akane squeezed the egg so hard she thought it might break under the pressure and capture her instead, but all it took was a single motion, a quick, spastic jerk. She flung the egg at her enemy, and magic fibers encased him within.

Cologne let out a heavy breath, leaning on her walking stick. "Very good, Tendō. It seems you have a keen mind about you, after all."

Akane slumped against the wall. Her clothes smoldered. Her ears rang.

Shouts. Yelling. Footsteps approached through the tunnel in the rock.

"Go away, pesky pigeons." Cologne dashed to the entrance mouth and tapped her finger on the wall, collapsing the improvised path as Phoenix warriors bashed on the outside to get in.

"What are you doing?" asked Akane.

"They won't know who did it," said Cologne, rushing back to the egg. "We can say it was the Sorcerer." She bashed on the shell with her walking stick, but the surface wouldn't crack. "Damn this. How hard must I hit it?"

"But I don't understand. Why did you—"

"Why do you think?" Cologne's words cut like a razor, and she brandished them with all the subtlety and precision of a switchblade. "This Sorcerer knows things, Tendō. He knows what Ranma told them, and if we let him stay in the custody of the Phoenix, he will tell them too, if commanded. Now stand aside! Stand aside unless you want Keema to know what Ranma said. If not, get out of my way."

So that was it, then. The price of saving Ranma was to deceive the only people who would be their allies. When Akane and Cologne emerged from this mess, they would say the tunnel wasn't their fault, and everyone would believe them. Why wouldn't they?

How easy it was, to perform this charade, when no one should find out.

Cologne swung the stick again, and this time, the shell cracked. The Sorcerer sat up with wide, blank eyes.

"Look at me," said Cologne. "You will obey me, understand?"

A nod.

"Do not move."

Cries and commotion. There was banging—on the cave-in that blocked the tunnel, on the iron double doors that guarded Saffron's chambers. Cologne watched both quarters as she fished through her pack.

"You had to deal with this before, didn't you?" asked Akane. "What did you do with the first one?"

"I wiped his mind of the information the way Ranma was purged from yours." Cologne retrieved the bottle of Shampoo and shook it. "But even so, I fear there isn't time."

"Then do something else! Tell him to forget!"

"And let Keema bring another egg, let her tell him to remember? I think not. There can be only one way to deal with this."

"What then?"

Cologne scoured the ground. There, on the floor, lay a single short dagger, charred with electrical burns. She slid her finger along the edge and saw that it was sharp enough. It was lethal. It could cut.

_She's going to—_

Shink!

With a jump and a slash, Cologne dispensed with the Sorcerer, and he tumbled from the egg, out of sight.

"You see, Tendō?" said Cologne, tossing the knife away. "You have to be prepared to face any enemy, do any deed. Anything short of that, and you will never see Ranma again. He'll stay lost with the Sorcerers forever, and years from now, you'll wonder when you sleep at night if he still lives or not. So take this lesson to heart; do not forget it."

Forget it she wouldn't, for the dead Sorcerer's blood pooled around the egg, and the stench of seared flesh pervaded the room, for at every corner and inch of Saffron's chambers, the dead surrounded her, and death was the price to pay to protect Ranma, to make sure he came home.

#

Night again. With three Sorcerers dead and one imprisoned, the Phoenix pulled back their patrols. They rested, and so too did the contingent from Nerima. When midnight had passed Akane couldn't say, but she sensed the sun would soon peek over the horizon. Better to sleep then, while it was dark, than try to shut out the light of day.

But once more she was restless in her sleeping bag, and not for the first time that night. Deceiving the Phoenix had proved unexpectedly simple. Cologne dragged a Phoenix tribesman into the remnants of the egg, so they could claim the Sorcerer took and killed him. She wedge the locking mechanism on the door to buy time; she scoured the room for clues and evidence in case they needed to substantiate their story—the fiction they'd feed the Phoenix so no one would suspect.

And when she came across a wounded Phoenix, whose bore burns scarring both hands, who twitched and struggled against the stone floor just to roll on his back…

For that poor soul, she took the Sorcerer's battle staff and twirled it just once to collapse the bird-man's skull.

"Check them all," Cologne had said. "We can afford no witnesses."

So Akane pressed her fingers to the necks of many a wounded Phoenix warrior, discovering, to her relief, that all she touched were indeed dead, that she wouldn't have to betray a life to save Ranma's.

_It couldn't have been easy for you, either,_ she thought. _Practicing art and fighting a war…they're different things._

After a fashion, the Phoenix battered down the iron door, and in poured Keema and her entourage. They had questions, so many questions—about the Sorcerer that nearly took Saffron, about the prisoner and why Korma's hair smelled so refreshing. Cologne dodged these questions with all the skill and cunning of a centenarian, and Akane was glad the Amazon matriarch would fight that battle for her. If she had to lie to Keema's face, she wasn't sure she could do it. Instead, she continued her rounds about the room, examining the wounded, pretending—at least with her body—that she was looking to save the living, not take away whatever they had left.

That was hours ago, and in the room where Akane had first seen the Phoenix light beacons of warning, she turned in her sleeping bag once again. She'd told no one of her confrontation with the third Sorcerer, nor had Cologne spoken of it. While Mousse and Ryōga recounted their battles, Akane had listened, at a loss for what to say. Mousse and Shampoo—they'd both accepted what Cologne told them: the Sorcerer scouts had to die. To protect Ranma, the Phoenix couldn't be allowed to capture them. But Akane—she was kept in the dark. Cologne kept her at her side, but like the Phoenix, Akane too was deceived. Cologne thought she wasn't strong enough to handle that burden, that she an attack of morality might cripple her at some inopportune time.

That was wrong of her. Either Akane would do what was needed to save Ranma, or she would choose the other course—to save an enemy or someone she barely knew, all for an ideal: for truth or morality or whatever men chose to call it. Whatever the word, it was all the same. Cologne couldn't make that choice for her. In the end, she would be tested, and she would be tested alone.

She would be tested when, as Cologne recounted her ruse of a tale to Keema's men, Akane crouched beside the body of a Phoenix and saw his a pair of bright green eyes move, however slightly, in response to her footsteps.

It was lucky that she managed to hold her tongue and drew no attention to herself, but stay silent she did. She didn't touch him. If she touched him, that would reinforce the idea that he was alive.

That if she slew him, she'd be taking something away.

She shut the image from her mind. There was nothing good to come of remembering that, and to think of Ranma somewhere out there, doing his best to come to this place and escape…

Well, that was little comfort, too. The _might_s and _maybe_s of the lives we lead mean nothing when we're confronted with cold reality: that to save the life of one we care for means to take the life of someone who doesn't deserve to die.

The time was right. The Phoenix were distracted. Masala and Korma dragged a body through the shattered door, and Cologne and Keema argued over strategy and protocol as they blasted each other for the miscommunications that got all these men killed. And when Akane's searching hand found the handle of a small dagger, she knew right away:

If she jabbed this Phoenix warrior in the back, there was a chance—a good chance—that no one would hear him, that he would bleed and bleed and there would be nothing anyone could do. Those bright green eyes would drift and lose focus, staring into the abyss forever.

Those eyes could haunt a lesser person, but for Akane, as she tried to get a wink of sleep before sun-up, she saw nothing but starlight.

_I really thought I would do anything to bring you back, Ranma._

She stared into the morning twilight, as if the stars would guide her troubled mind, but there was nothing out there to help her—only light and dark and shadow.

Moving shadows that blocked the stars, shadows that had the forms of birds and men, that swooped to the window and the steps outside that led to nowhere.

Akane bolted to her feet. "Everyone! Wake up! There's—"

Crack, BANG! Windows shattered. Doors ripped from their hinges. From three sides, arrows whipped past, and magical eggs caught the occupants of the room unawares, capturing them in a dreamless, obedient trance.

Akane buried herself in a corner, ducking as a surikomi egg bounced by, but the egg that missed her claimed someone else.

"What the hell's going—ahh!"

It swallowed Ukyō and her spatula whole.

"Come out, Tendō!" said a voice. "I hate to think what would happen if you had to fight your friends here!"

_Damn you, Keema._ She placed her hands on her head and stepped into the doorway. In the main room of the cliffside dwelling, more eggs wobbled precariously on the floor. Keema's men kept Akane at the point of arrows, while the captain herself held another egg in hand.

"I think you know why we're here," said Keema. "You've been hiding something from us. Will you tell us now, or must we wring it from you when your mind is like clay in our hands?"

Akane stood tall, dropping her arms to her side. "The Sorcerers captured Ranma wanting to know who the Sieve could be," said Akane. "They thought it might be Saffron, but they weren't sure."

"And?" said Keema.

"Ranma heard the story of how they realized the last Sieve failed—how they saw a flash from Jusenkyō and felt it."

"And?"

"He thought it could only be Saffron's death; he tried to escape, to hold out as long as he could!"

"But he didn't, did he?" Kemma nodded, the pieces coming together in her mind. "He could no longer resist their methods, so he told them exactly what they wanted to hear."

"It was nothing against any of you," said Akane. "He just didn't know what else to do. Ranma never thought it would get this far. He's lied to them. He's done everything to make sure if the Sorcerers tried to fight you, they'd know nothing that was true, so if you fought, _they_ would be the ones—"

"To die?"

Akane shuddered.

"Did you not look around Lord Saffron's chambers?" asked Keema. "Did you not see the wounded and dead littering the floor? You think there won't be casualties when the Sorcerers come to Mount Phoenix? Is that what you really believed, little girl? Saotome Ranma has condemned my people to years more of famine, and now he damns us! He forces us to the precipice of destruction! He _thinks_ Saffron can be the Sorcerers' Sieve? How can he know? How do any of them know? _You_ might accept it, and _she_ might welcome to fight the Sorcerers again and avenge the dead, but my people still yet live, and I WILL NOT let them become ashes in the wind!"

The egg flew at Akane's face. There was no resisting it. There was no running away, not this time. It enveloped her in a black deeper than any black she'd seen before, yet as the egg put her to sleep, she saw clearly.

There was a dagger in her hands. There lay a body at her feet. Slit his throat or stab him in the back, and those bright green eyes would fade and shut forever. In turning off those lights, the hope for Ranma's safe return would burn yet still.

But that fire was consuming her, and she had no more left to give. She placed the dagger on the floor and walked away, not daring to look back, for she hoped, she prayed, that sparing one life wouldn't cost her the boy she'd sent away. To slay that Phoenix warrior would leave a blemish, a scar permanent and eternal hiding just beneath her skin. She would feel it forever, and not even Ranma at his most forgiving could love her for it.

Her hopes had been in vain, though, for that Phoenix warrior, she imagined, must have seen something to condemn her, and despite her charity, he couldn't help but tell the truth.

That's when she realized it—the person standing next to Keema, wrapped in bandages and a sling, had bright green eyes, too.

* * *

**Next:** With the truth revealed, the Sorcerers confront Ranma over his lies, and Keema, desperate to stave off war against her people, brokers a deal: retreat, she tells the Sorcerers, and she'll hand over the Amazons who've interfered in both their affairs, but for a weary Kohl, there can be no negotiation. There _must_ be a new Sieve. **The destinies of the three tribes hinge on the finale to "Ashes" - "Trades for Traitors" - Coming September 17, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	32. Ashes V: Trades for Traitors

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** Days ago, the Sorcerer Kohl sent scouts to Mount Phoenix. Now, as his army arrives on the edge of the plain, those same scouts return with news: of Ranma's lies and a deal to be brokered, if only both sides can trust and accept it.

* * *

**Trades for Traitors**

_Chapter Five Finale_

Nestled beneath a canopy of thick forest, the Sorcerer base camp was a scattered collection of rawhide tents and uncovered wagons. The Sorcerers had hid in the thick of the trees before the forest gave way to grasses and rocky earth. It was a calculated move. To elude the Phoenix, they made camp well out of sight, where the tall, narrow peak of the mountain would look like little more than a needle in the distance—distance that would conceal their presence until they were ready to strike.

Pity it was all wasted on a plan never meant to succeed.

_Well, pity for some._

Sitting on a log, Ranma dangled a clay bowl over a campfire, stirring stew with a broken stick.

_Yeah, the food sucks, but the trip's worth it. As soon as the Sorcerers start tangling with the Phoenix, I'm out of here. Good luck holding me in the chaos of battle, you freaks._

But Ranma was getting a little ahead of himself, and he knew it. Patience was his greatest weapon here. He'd made the march of two days with the Sorcerer caravan, and not once did he make trouble. Wuya already suspected him of treachery; she'd made that clear.

_Attacking Akane, interrogating her…_ He tossed the stick aside and sat over the bowl of stew, shaking his head. _I won't forgive them. I won't forgive _her_._

It went well beyond that. Had he not reached into Akane's dreams to speak with her, he wouldn't have known Wuya was lying. He'd have thought Akane lay helpless in a Sorcerer cell somewhere while they swung their staff heads into her skull. That's why Akane was best kept away from this place. Gods only knew if she wandered into the Sorcerers' hands again, if they tortured her, beat her…

If Wuya met Akane again and gave her so much as a scratch on her forehead, Ranma wouldn't hold back—he'd rip the captain's arms off.

He might not stop there, either.

Ranma glanced to the mountain. _Tell me you listened for a change, Akane. This ain't the time to be stubborn._

She did have that tendency, though: the brazen drive to rush headlong into action, neglecting the risks to herself. When Ryōga first came to town, she braved razor-sharp bandanas to get Ranma water. When Happōsai's moxibustion chart fluttered in the tornado of the Hiryū Shōten Ha, she leapt into the twister to retrieve it.

And when Saffron's transformation threatened to consume Ranma, she gripped the white-hot Kinjakan with both hands…

A twitch. The bowl cracked down the middle, and steaming stew seeped from the gap.

_That's why it's better you're not here, Akane,_ he thought. _If you were…I don't know if I could handle that again._

"Outsider."

Ranma poured water from his canteen, rinsing his hands of the sticky stew he'd spilled. He met the gaze of the newcomer and laughed to himself. "Aw, look, it's the bitch again," he said. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Come with me," said Wuya. "Now."

Brief and to the point, even for the captain. Ranma rose, staring her down face-to-face. "Why? Something happen? Something you want?"

"My scout from the Phoenix has returned. The Lady demands your presence to evaluate their findings."

"You sent scouts to the mountain? When did you get time to do that? We just got here."

"Magic makes time."

"It sure doesn't make good stew. Can't you have your magic make waffles or something?"

The captain grimaced. "Come."

"All right, all right." Ranma tossed the broken bowl in the fire. "I guess your wish is my command. You want me to kiss your feet?"

Wuya's pointed the way through the camp with the tip of her staff, keeping Ranma in front of her—a vulnerable position, but Ranma had no room to object. Wuya knew that. The rest of the Sorcerer Guard, watching from their tents over morning meals, knew that as well.

"Ko—ah, Captain Wuya?" The Sieve cocked his head, standing in the path. "Is something the matter?"

"Not now, Tilaka."

"But—"

Wuya's Chinese came out like bullets from a machine gun. Tilaka heard her and understood, bowing and stepping aside.

"What's that about?" asked Ranma.

"Keep moving." Wuya prodded him in the back with the tip of her staff. "That is not your concern. This way."

'_Not my concern.' People don't say it's not your concern unless it is. Blatant lies. That's what that is._

And Ranma felt the weight of those lies closing on him. The Sorcerers of the Guard left their tents, trailing behind Ranma and Wuya at a distance. Others of their number waited among the trees; their staff tips glinted in the morning sun.

Ranma stopped. "You mind telling me what this is really about?"

"I told you; I want you to meet with the scout."

"Why? What did they find?"

"One made contact with the Phoenix; he will have something of interest to say."

"Only one?"

"I sent four." A beat. "Three are dead."

"Dead? What happened?"

"Move forward."

"What happened? The Phoenix killed them?"

"No," said Wuya. "The Amazons did!"

"What?" Ranma spun, facing her. "What did they—"

SCHING, SWIPE! With the dagger from his Wuya, Kohl cut and slashed at Ranma, dicing at air.

Ranma danced and jittered aside, twisting his body to avoid the blade. "What the hell? You're trying to kill me? With a little knife? Really?"

Wuya held her ground, and the dagger floated in mid-air, bending to her will. "I'll drag you back to the Lady," she said. "She will at last know the depths of your deceptions! You murder Sorcerers with your lies! No more!"

The dagger turned its point toward Ranma, circling him. It spiraled inward and thrust!

CHING! Ranma froze his fists and punched the dagger aside. With the weight of ice blocks to increase his power, Ranma led with his left

BAM! Ice pressed against ice. Wuya shielded herself in a thick sheet of frost, but Ranma hammered away.

"You think the same trick's going to save you twice?"

Crack, WHAM! Ranma decked Wuya, knocking her to the dirt.

"You know what?" said Ranma. "Fuck you! Fuck all of you and your twisted ways! I'll play no part in them anymore!"

He jammed his foot in Wuya's side, knocking the air from her lungs.

"You don't like that? I'm sorry; I can't hear you!"

TEW! A bolt of white light grazed Ranma's shoulder, singing his shirt.

_Right,_ he thought. _Best not stay here any longer than I have to. Time to go._ Kicking up soil, Ranma left the dazed and dirty Wuya and dashed for camp's edge, dodging blasts of light and fire. He leapt over the Sorcerers who would stop him, kicking off a tree to change direction in mid-air, and landed safely behind the circle of enemies. He wove between boulders and tree trunks, using nature for cover where he couldn't yet hide. There was only one place for him to go: the mountain that towered over the horizon, the sole allied sanctuary he could count on among this unfamiliar, hostile terrain.

_Works for me._

The Sorcerer Guard gave chase; slow and steady, they shuffled from tree to tree, perhaps thinking as Ranma did—that some small amount of natural cover, however insignificant, might save them should their magical defenses fail.

_We'll see about that._ Ranma ducked behind a boulder, and a snowflake tether crept from his fingers to the tree trunks. "You know," he called out to the Sorcerers, "if you guys run away now, I'll gladly accept your surrender!"

A fireball blasted the rock, melting the face clean off.

_All right; you asked for it._ He raised his hand overhead, curling his fingers as if to hold a javelin. He pumped his arm back and threw!

THWAP! A tree trunk shattered, and the Sorcerer behind it recoiled, stumbling.

THWAP-THWAP! Ice pounded against ice, yet though the Sorcerers avoided deadly impalings, Ranma's ice spears carried them off their feet, propelling them deeper into the wood.

"How do you like that, huh?" THWAP! "That one's for me!" THWAP! "That one's for Akane!" THWAP-THWAP! "And, uh, those are for me, too!"

Deeper in the forest, the Sorcerers, scattered and disorganized, gathered to regroup.

_All right; that'll have to do. Time to go! _ Ranma turned on his feet and took two steps to run.

"You care much for that person, don't you?"

"Gah!" He put on the brakes. Just two steps away from him stood Tilaka, who—to all appearances—seemed utterly unconcerned for his own safety or for the battle that still waged.

"What the hell?" said Ranma. "How did you get here without me noticing?"

"I walk quietly," said Tilaka, smiling.

"Yeah? Well, good for you. I've got no time for head games, so bye." Ranma yanked Tilaka aside and looked over his own shoulder, checking to see how much ground the Sorcerers made up.

"You resent that Captain Wuya hurt her? That someone hurt your friend?"

"You're damn right I do," Ranma called out, not bothering to look back.

"So do I."

A twinge pulled at Ranma's insides. It was small at first, but sudden. He skidded on his feet, breathing erratically, and felt his chest.

"You may have your friends," said Tilaka, "but I have mine. You punched her with a ball of ice."

"Well, don't take it person—agh!" He doubled over, coughing. The twinge intensified, like a cold, dead feeling, as if his body were hollowing out from within. "What is this?" he demanded. "You trying your mind tricks again?"

"You know as well as I do—this isn't a trick. What you feel is nothing you haven't felt before."

"I think I'd remember this!"

"Don't you?"

No, no, that was impossible. This feeling that welled up inside—it crippled him. It froze him. Ranma knew and understood many emotions. Anger, irritation—those he understood. What stopped him dead in his tracks on the Tibetan Plateau that day—he didn't understand it. He _couldn't_ understand it. It was too many different emotions all mixed together, hitting him at once. It was fear; it was regret; it was loss. It was emptiness. One cannot see black, for black is the absence of things, but one can _feel_ emptiness. One knows absence where something should be. He knew something was missing because he shook for it. He turned over his hands, and they trembled.

They held something.

It was cloth, fabric. Clothing of a foreign design, but that wasn't what struck Ranma.

The clothes were warm. Hot, even. Though his hands lay tangled and webbed together, he felt the heat from the shirt and trousers. Warmth radiated into a steaming, boiling cavern.

Ranma looked up, and at the head of the Dragon Tap, there was naught but a key. The emptiness of that room gnawed at his soul and built from it a prison inescapable.

But outside this cage, the real world remained, and so did Ranma's body. The Sorcerers of the Guard gathered about the pigtailed girl. Her arms outstretched, as if to cradle something, she keeled in the dirt and stared toward the horizon, her gaze empty and unfocused. She was a shell of a person, nothing more.

"Tilaka," said Kohl. "What did you do to her?"

"I only took what was in her heart and brought it out. I couldn't absorb those energies myself. I had to leave them to her instead."

Kohl circled Ranma and crouched down, eying a face frozen in shock, agony, and grief. "Gather some men," he ordered his subordinates. "We'll have her taken back to the village, in case the Lady still has use for her. Right now, I want her nowhere in my sight."

The Sorcerers of the Guard grabbed Ranma by the arms and dragged him back to camp, but his limbs locked in place like those of a statue.

"To think," said Kohl, "that that's what you had to do all these years as our Sieve. I can think of nothing else so cruel."

"Most of what I felt terrified me, but I was even more afraid of feeling nothing, so I continued to listen, continued to feel, but it wasn't all so frightening. There were times, brief and far between, that I enjoyed what I felt and wished only that I could somehow give it back."

"The Lady would forbid it."

"So she would, but still…"

Tilaka shaded her eyes, looking toward the mountain in the distance.

"I think I'd like to feel something like that again."

#

Tilaka may have sought recapture some emotion, but feelings are fleeting things. They come; they go. They burst forth and ebb away, and do we understand why? When a boy touches, however innocently, the arm of a teenage girl, does she understand the fluttering of her heart, or does she deny that she could be attracted that person, as if to convince even herself?

The psychologists call this _dissonance_. When our minds hold conflicting ideas, one must win and the other lose. Either we accept the nagging feelings that bother us, or we reject them, dismiss them. We bury them under rationalizations.

Sometimes, we blind ourselves to the truth. And it's so very easy to be blind when one doesn't even know what to look for, what that truth must lie behind fog.

"Keema!"

There was no fog in the catacombs under Mount Phoenix—at least, not of the physical sort. The crypts and caverns were well buffered from changes in weather, and the flames of torches burned off any excess mist that would creep in, but for the prisoners of the Phoenix tribe that day, their view of the world was unclear at best, for when their master walked before their cells, they gathered by the bars and called her name.

"Keema! Keema!"

The Phoenix captain walked along the far side of the tunnel. If but one of her captives had broken her control, they needed only pretend to adore her, reach out with an arm, and yank her through the the treated iron bars. That wouldn't do at all.

But the magic of the Phoenix eggs had never failed Keema, and her caution was just that—caution, not fear. The captives treated her as their master; they respected her. They revered her. Their eyes lit up as she walked past. They pressed their heads against the bars to watch her go. They called out for her, as if a nod or a smile would fill them with glee.

"Isn't this a little…much, captain?" asked Masala, trailing in her path.

"If you had absolute control over half a dozen men, wouldn't you want them to love you?"

"Well, if you put it that way, I'm actually very secure in my self-worth and don't need this kind of false approval from—"

"Masala?"

"Yes, Captain Keema?"

"Would you like to be added to my collection?"

He paled. "It's…um, been a secret dream of mine! To have obedient Amazon slaves at my command."

"Better. Perhaps you'd like Shampoo to help suit your needs?"

With her seductive smile, Shampoo turned her head to the side and pressed her body against the bars, so her warm breath would flow into the tunnel. "I would do anything," she said, "if Mistress Keema orders it."

Masala flushed. "Do I have to take everything?"

"Pardon?" asked Keema.

"Can I just have her without the clothes?"

"Idiot." Keema whacked him on the back of the head.

"But you said—"

"Serve me well first," said Keema, "and then, maybe, I'll let you have the ninja over there."

"But that's a man!"

"Really?" Keema frowned. "Well, that may still be too good for you."

Stupefied, Masala stared back at her, perplexed.

"Just…go watch the entrance," said Keema, shooing him away. "All of you!" she called to the prisoners. "Sleep now."

Obediently, the captives curled up on the floor, closing their eyes, including the girl in the cell before Keema.

"Not you."

Her eyes fluttered open.

"Yes, you, Tendō." Keema tapped a talon on a bar. "I would speak to you."

"Of course," said Akane. "Anything for Mistress Keema."

Keema suppressed an amused smile. "As fascinating as your obedience is, I've grown tired of this…misplaced adoration. Look at me."

Akane met her gaze, steady and unguarded.

"Be free."

Akane blinked. Her eyes scanned the room. She touched her hair and face, as if to check they were really there.

"Are you awake?"

She locked eyes with Keema. "You…"

"I take that—"

WHAM, RING! Akane's fist bent the iron bar at a right angle, buckling it outward and snapping it from the ceiling.

"…as a yes," finished Keema.

"You can't hold us like this!" Akane yanked the bar from the ground and wielded the bent piece of metal like an awkward spear. "I won't let you!"

Keema sighed. "Do not think violence threatens me. Do you forget? But one word from my lips, and your friends and comrades fight by my side."

Akane flinched, her grip on the bar wavering. "Fine. What is it you want from me that you couldn't get while I was under your control?"

"Truthfully? Probably nothing of consequence. I've heard enough from all of you to know the facts of this tale, but still there is a question I have that, no matter how I phrase it, I get answers that cannot possibly make sense." She narrowed her eyes, watching Akane with a piercing gaze. "Why would you do this, come all this way, for his sake?"

"For Ranma? What choice did we have?"

"This isn't your war." She pointed to the Amazons. "Or theirs, yet you're all entwined in it. For one person? Truly?"

"What's so wrong with that? You and your people came to Tōkyō to find the map, didn't you? You did that all for Saffron!"

"For my people, all of them."

"There's no difference!" said Akane. "You owed your people, and I owe Ranma. I still do. Nothing can change that unless we get him back."

"You deceived us."

"Ranma believed Saffron was going to be the Sieve. I admit, I didn't think anything about whether he was right or not."

"It didn't occur to you."

Akane shook her head.

"And you thought sparing my man would earn my reprieve?"

"I won't lie to you, Keema—that wasn't what I was thinking. When I stood over him and saw him blink, I took out a knife. I was ready. I was going to do it."

"I hardly find that thought endearing."

Akane sighed. "I'm not like Cologne. I don't have the stuff in me to do like she did. If I saved Ranma because I killed someone who didn't deserve it, I think he would look at me and see it like a scar across my face. He would know."

"Naïve sentiment. What does it matter if he knows your sins, so long as he's free and alive? Your reasons make no sense, Tendō."

"Is this all you're here for?" said Akane, glaring. "To taunt me? What are you going to do with us? Leave us here to be your slaves forever?"

"Please. I wouldn't waste the food."

"You're going to kill us?"

Keema gritted her teeth. "We're not barbarians, either. I've sent an envoy to the Sorcerers, telling them that Ranma deceived both our peoples. I've heard, from their captain, that Ranma no longer has their ear, but the Sorcerers still make camp outside our lands. To broker their retreat, it seems something more is required."

"And what's that?"

"You." Keema smirked. "All of you, Japanese and Amazon alike. I think the Sorcerers are right to want people making so much trouble for them in their custody. Don't you agree?"

Akane scoffed. "It's a trick!"

"Is it? The only reason the Sorcerers had to attack us is gone. I've told them, quite clearly, that Lord Saffron cannot be their Sieve, that it was a fiction Ranma fed them to bide time. Is that not the truth of things?"

"Ranma may have planted the idea that Saffron was the Sieve, but they're the ones who ran with it," said Akane. "Do you really think they'd have gone this far to go after him if they didn't think it could be true?"

Keema narrowed her eyes. "What would you have me do, Tendō? If the chance the Sorcerers will honor our deal is but one in ten—nay, one in a hundred—should I not do it? Should I commit to fighting them and let my people's blood drip off my hands?"

"You're the one who's naïve if you think those Sorcerers will leave you alone because of any deal you make. If they want to go after Saffron, they will. Count on it."

"You seem quite certain of their duplicity."

"They've tricked me before."

"And you resent that, don't you?"

"This isn't about the Sorcerers, all right? This is about Ranma. You have to do what you should for your people. I have to do what I should for Ranma."

"You would compare what you're doing to my responsibility to the tribe?"

"Of course not! But still…that doesn't make me any less responsible. I'm the reason Ranma went back to Jusenkyō. I'm the reason they found him and took him. I could trust him with my life a thousand times over, but I wouldn't trust him in my heart." She met Keema's gaze. "I won't dare tell you it's the same as what you do, but that doesn't mean I'm any less bound to do it. Tell me this, then, Keema: if you don't trust what I'm telling you, if you don't trust the Sorcerers to go away when you make your deal, then who _do_ you trust?"

Keema smirked. "I think I understand you now, Tendō. Thank you."

"Eh? What are you going to do?"

"Tomorrow, when the Sorcerers come, I'm going to make my exchange, and I won't be sorry for it. I was wrong about you: it's not about war with the Sorcerers. You're all just obsessed with Ranma, every single one of you, and when the charade was up, you, Tendō—you did the only thing you could: you told the truth, but truth isn't reality. You know what reality is?"

She leaned closer, focusing on Akane with a piercing stare.

"You felt you had nothing else to lose. That is how I judge you. You have your selfish interests, and so do I, and I won't apologize for them."

"So you'll really give us up," said Akane. "You'll hand us over to the Sorcerers even though you mistrust them as much as us? You've already caged us. Why don't you do something about them? Let them prove to you they can be dealt with, or let them prove that they _can't_ be."

Keema frowned, her brow furrowing in contemplation. "Tell me, Tendō," she began. "You said you couldn't trust Ranma in your heart?"

"…yeah."

"I seduced him, you know."

Akane's eyes bulged to saucers. "What? You didn't!"

"With your body," said Keema. "I think, had we not been interrupted, I could've eroded his will to resist."

"Because you have lots of practice entrancing young Japanese men?"

"Because I had the form of someone he desired. Even when confronted with our most secret dreams, even when we think they cannot possibly come true, do we not indulge in them, given the chance?"

Akane looked away, blushing. "I could never do those things."

"Then where I lack trust, you lack courage; is that so?"

"Maybe." She bowed her head. "Maybe it is."

"Then it's good I require no courage from you."

And so, Keema left Akane to the dark, flickering tunnels. With Masala to watch over the prisoners, the Phoenix captain took wing under starlight. If her suspicions were misguided, so much the better, but she circled the mountain alone, all the same. If her fears held but a kernel of truth instead, this would be the last night she could fly so aimlessly—the last night for many to come.

Akane was right. She'd judged the Amazons for their deeds, and nothing would undo that, but it was unfair not to judge the Sorcerers for the same.

She landed atop the mountain in the Phoenix court, where naught but a single soul awaited her.

…snoring as he leaned back on the throne.

"Korma!"

He jerked upright. "Huh? What?"

"You're supposed to be on watch," said Keema.

"I was!"

"Watching dream faeries dance behind your eyelids?"

"No!" He squirmed. "Maybe."

"Since you seem inadequate for watch duty, worry not, Korma. Your watch is over. I have a different task for you."

Korma stood upright, at attention.

"Bring me some clothes."

His eyes widened slightly. "Captain Keema, I—I didn't know…"

"They're not for me, moron!"

"Oh! Oh. Right away!"

"And Korma?"

"Yes, captain?"

"Bring me some cold water. And not from the spring."

#

As Keema made her preparations, so too did the Sorcerers work through the night. They uprooted their tents, stuffing bags and weapons into packs to go over their shoulders. Their camp was unsafe, after all—the Phoenix and their envoys knew of it, and that wouldn't do for Kohl. Better to uproot his army and attack from a secret location than let the Phoenix sneak up on them while he was gone.

And he would be gone, for in the morning, he would go to meet the Amazon prisoners and remove anyone who might interfere with their attack.

"Is that what the Lady says to do, Kohl?"

In his captain's body, Kohl frowned. "You know better than to use that name in this company."

A skeleton force Kohl kept with him at the old camp—a minimal amount of protection and activity to deceive the Phoenix should they come snooping and fend them off should they strike. As much as he thought of his own abilities, Kohl was no fool: he alone could be overwhelmed—by sheer numbers, of course…

Or, as had happened before, by someone with greater determination and will.

"I mean to say," Tilaka corrected herself, peering into Kohl's tent, "the Lady wants us to still attack?"

"That depends." Kohl laid back, and a small ember from his index finger lit the space. "Do we take Saotome Ranma at face value knowing she tricked us? Do _you_ still think Saffron is the next Sieve?"

"To have moved me from such a distance—it must be a being of great power. Who else could it be?"

"Indeed. Who else could it be."

"You'd be right," said Tilaka, "to take their bargain and leave. If we can't trust Saffron to be the Sieve, I can go back."

And let the priests torture her again? And have them carve from her heart a hole, in which the sinful feelings of hundreds—nay, thousands—could swirl and disappear into nothing at all?

_I'd kneel for the priests myself before it came to that._

And if Saffron weren't the Sieve, then how would they find the right one? This would outside the tower spanned the village a hundred times over, and so many days had passed. It was possible, even likely, that if the Sieve were indeed another, they'd never find him. Or someone like Ranma might feed them false clues and hope and lead them astray once more.

Ranma lied. The Phoenix would lie to protect their king.

_I won't believe Saffron isn't the Sieve until I glimpse him with my own eyes._

So, under fading starlight, they walked together across the open plain—Kohl because he would have no one else do this duty, and Tilaka because she wouldn't let Kohl go alone.

"Leaving the rest of the men at the tree line to watch us is sound," said Kohl.

"But those who fight are usually safer in pairs," said Tilaka. "Isn't that what we were taught?"

"Can you fight?"

"I think I've proved I can." Tilaka pressed her hand to her flat, masculine chest. "As long as I wear this body, I think I'm more than capable."

"You would do what the Lady asked of you again—and willingly, too?"

"It's the only way I can contribute now. And because I'm still searching."

"For that energy?"

"That's not the right word. It's…" The corners of her lips turned upward. "It's a feeling."

And so, Kohl and Tilaka waited on the desolate wastes of the Tibetan Plateau, and as the sun poked over the horizon, draping them in the mountain's shadow, Kohl had only one thing to say.

"Twenty-four hours in a day," he said, shivering. "Twenty-four hours in a day, nearly twelve of sunlight and twelve of darkness. So many hours to pick from. So many moments to choose a time to meet. They _had_ to pick dawn…"

#

"Akane-chan?"

Along the row of cells, the prisoners were released, but this was no glimpse of freedom. Under Korma's watch, the Phoenix bound the Amazon and Japanese captives in iron shackles—a gesture mostly for show. They'd obey any command, so long as it derived from Keema's authority, but still, no one was willing to let prisoners walk out of the mountain without some encumberance. The Phoenix chained up Cologne first, then Ryōga and Mousse, then Shampoo, Konatsu, and Ukyō, but one of the prisoners dozed lightly in the corner of her cell, and it was to that person that a voice called out.

"Akane-chan, wake up!"

She blinked, and in an instant, she was awake. "Ukyō? What's happening?"

"Come along," beckoned the chef. "Mistress Keema wants us to be ready; we're to be delivered to the Sorcerers."

Akane nodded. Rising to her feet, she fell into line as the bird-men measured her hands and feet for the bindings.

"This is going to help the Phoenix?" she asked.

"That's the idea," said Korma. "Wrists."

She held out her wrists, palms up, and Korma cuffed her without a word.

"Did you get new clothes?"

Akane jerked. "Excuse me?"

"Your clothes," said Ukyō. "They look different."

"They're native," said Konatsu, peering around the line. "Just like the other tribespeople."

"Oh! Yes. Keema came to see me last night; we talked for some time, and she offered me a change of clothes in gratitude."

"You mean _Mistress_ Keema," said Ryōga.

Akane laughed quietly to herself. "My mistake."

"It's interesting," said Ukyō, studying her from one spot back in the line. "So it's two layers?"

"Yeah, the shirt underneath is sleeveless. Here, pull on it."

Ukyō caught the fabric between her thumb and forefinger, and the outer jacket pulled away, revealing a tight white top that bared most of her back.

"Must be cold," said Ukyō.

"Oh no," said Akane. "It's fine."

"Ankles," said Korma.

Akane stood at attention, and Korma fastened the shackled around her feet as well.

"It's a little snug," said Akane. "Must they really be this tight?"

"Captain Keema said explicitly: as long as they fit, these are the shackles you're supposed to wear. These and no others."

"I guess it's okay then."

A Phoenix tribesman wandered in, catching Korma's ear. They whispered to each other in Chinese, and after a moment's deliberation, Korma made the announcement.

"All right, the Sorcerers have agreed to receive you. Move!"

#

Greeting the daylight for the first time, the prisoners marched out in a line, left to right. Korma and Masala walked beside them as escorts,.

"Good enough for you?" asked Korma.

"Those chains are pathetic," said Kohl. "I could breathe on them, and they'd turn to dust. What's to stop these prisoners from resisting?"

"They'll follow commands," said Masala. "Watch."

Thud. A clawed fist slammed into Ryōga's gut. He winced, hunching over, but his expression changed to a gleeful, worshipping smile.

"See? He can't even curse us. To punish him this way makes him feel useful."

Kohl's eyes bulged; he stepped back. "That's…frightening."

"It seems we are indeed satisfied," said Tilaka. "Thank you."

With parting nods, Korma and Masala took wing and flew, riding the thermals back home.

"So be it," said Kohl. "You all see the rock by the tree line—the one that juts out from the northwest? Make for it. Tilaka and I will follow."

The group moved together, stepping in rhythm so their chains wouldn't tangle and snag.

"You don't want us at your back, do you," said Akane.

Kohl scoffed. "I made an offer in good faith to you. I told you we had no quarrel with you, yet you interfered anyway. You inconvenienced us, and for that, I must take your freedom. Does that satisfy you?"

"An offer? What do you—" She stopped herself. "So your goal is Saffron still? Even knowing Ranma lied to you?"

"Be quiet," said Kohl. "I thought you were conditioned to follow orders."

Akane yanked on the chains and spun to face him. With the group halted in their tracks, Kohl had no choice but to stand and listen.

"You're still going to attack, aren't you?" she said. "You never had any intention of leaving at all."

"Face forward and march!"

"When does it start? As soon as we reach the tree line?"

Kohl glared. "You have no business knowing how or when. We came here for Saffron. No one else can be the Sieve. When we're done, you can have Saotome Ranma; I, for one, would hope never to see her again. Now, if you are satisfied, move!"

"I'm satisfied," said Akane, turning away, "but you missed something."

"What's that?"

She pulled the chain between her hands taut. "It wasn't my business knowing you'd attack at all."

SNAP! The iron links cracked and crumbled, falling to her feet as dust.

Behind a layer of ice, Kohl yanked Tilaka to his side and swung his staff forward to defend, but Akane wasn't finished. From her belt, she untied a canteen.

_I should've noticed that,_ thought Kohl. _I should've noticed that, but I wasn't thinking. I was tired and cold. I wasn't focused on my duty. Just the cold and Tilaka and wanting this to be finished. But now I see…_

Water splashed over Akane's head, and from billowing steam, a pair of white wings grew.

_Her ki felt wrong._

"Break free of your bonds, my children!" said Keema. "Stand together and be fettered no longer!"

A firework shot into the sky, blasting light and echoing into the dawn, and on a leather harness to hold her, Akane flew in, supported by the strength of Korma and Masala. The three of them returned lost weapons to their owners—a spatula to Ukyō, a pair of maces to Shampoo—and with the Sorcerer captain and Sieve surrounded, Akane unstrapped her harness to stand ready, bare-fisted but poised to strike.

"Well, Wuya?" she said. "The Phoenix people know how tricky you are. I told them myself, and Keema—she was exactly the right person to find out the truth."

Tilaka clung to Kohl's side, but the captain was bold and unswerving. Even in the face of hordes of Phoenix people clouding the sky, he held fast.

"I am not intimidated by this charade. You may have kept forces ready in case this exchange went sour, but so have I."

He thrust his arm skyward, and a fireball mushroomed into the gray dawn. Dark clouds gathered over the plain…

And where Kohl and Tilaka had stood alone, a dozen Sorcerers materialized, staves spinning before them as impenetrable shields.

Thus, men and women of the three tribes met in the shadow of the mountain that day, and with the story of their gathering told, the next tale—of how the Sorcerers would claim their Sieve and how Phoenix and Amazon would thwart them—can at last begin.

_**Identity**_** 05 End**

* * *

That's the end of chapter five, and I hope it's been enjoyable for you all. I would like to preview chapter six at this time, but I must confess with regret that further installments are as yet unwritten. As I expressed two weeks ago, I've very much enjoyed posting _Identity_ on a weekly basis, and I hope to do so again in the future, but for now, the best interest of the story is to hold off, in my opinion, until at least chapter six is completely written, a process that, historically speaking, would likely take six to ten weeks. I hope it's closer to the former than the latter, but I can make no promises. All I can say is that I'm still very much committed to this story, and I hope to complete chapters six and seven—the concluding parts of the first book—as soon as possible.

To my frequent readers and reviewers, I thank you. Hopefully, this is just "see you soon."

_For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at __westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com__, or follow the link in my profile._


	33. The Battle of Phoenix Mountain: Prelude

_Identity_ is back, and the war for Ranma's freedom and the Sorcerers' Sieve comes to a head as Kohl leads his army to Saffron's nest! The adventure continues Fridays with the complete sixth chapter…

* * *

**The Battle of Phoenix Mountain**

_A chapter in eight acts_

In times of war and peace, there is much more in common than the historian might think. Far from the lines of battle, life doesn't just "go on"—it persists. It thrives. It demands water and sustenance. Bakers knead and make their daily bread. Farmers till the fields from dawn to dusk.

And in the bazaar of the Sorcerer village, a rope-maker must tie and braid until her hands ache, and then some more.

_For years, I have breathed. I've eaten and slept, yet to now, I think I haven't lived._

The shoppers and merchants of the bazaar chatted amongst themselves. They strolled and smiled, trading their wares for linen or gold. To every one of them, magic came naturally, the prized fruit of training, effort, patience, and skill. To manipulate the ki flows demanded such dedication—or at least, that's what the Lady said.

The rope-maker cupped her hand. From nothing, an ember blazed to life and died again, its time in this world short and fleeting. A trivial trick for even the smallest of children, yet it required restraint from the rope-maker this time. Restraint, concentration, and focus, for if she'd wavered just a hair that ember would've exploded and burned her stand down.

_The magic comes so easily now. It can't be a coincidence._

True enough, these days without the Sieve had been enlightening—for her and her kin—and who was the Lady to say they shouldn't embrace it? In magic, there was power. In magic, one could feel the pulse of the world like one's own. Even in the ropes, the fibers from plants long since dead, the remnants of that energy remained. They sat dormant, waiting for someone—waiting for her—to feel them and bring them out. Such a small trace she never would've felt before, when that boy Tilaka sat atop the tower, draining the ever-living souls from all her kind.

The rope-maker felt the echo of that well. She gripped the strands of rope and pulled every drop of magic into herself. Let no one, not even the Lady, tell her magic should be contained. Such would be like telling a blind man he should never see. Surely there is more danger in not knowing the precipice before you than in looking below and fearing the fall.

And were it not for magic that day, the rope-maker wouldn't have known that this time, the precipice approached her instead.

"You!"

At least, not until he slammed his hands on her stand. Again.

"My," said the rope-maker. "This seems familiar."

"I need to talk to you," said the girl, an outsider, yet the rope-maker knew her face too well.

"We've had this conversation. You're keeping customers from my stand, and you're making your guards suspicious."

"You think I give a damn about that?" said Ranma.

The rope-maker narrowed her eyes. "Shouldn't you be with the Phoenix? Or is the attack called off?"

"It ain't called off! They dragged me back here; they're going after Saffron alone!"

_Alone? _

The rope-maker twitched. "What do you think I can do, then, hm? I'm but a lowly artisan."

"Oh? What was all that stuff you were saying? About wanting to use magic and all that? What happened? You change your mind?"

The rope-maker's gaze flickered from him. The patrons were watching, yet their gazes betrayed only an inkling of suspicion, a hint that something might be amiss. They felt little; they felt less than what they should, even then. So the rope-maker guessed, for on Ranma's face she saw something—urgency, panic, need—that her countrymen seldom possessed.

And it was a quality they would never have, either, should a new Sieve take Tilaka's place.

"What do you expect me to do?" she asked Ranma. "My power is limited if I'm not to be caught."

"Wuya got her scouts in the mountain and messed everything up. You know that trick?"

"You would have us send you there? That's a tall favor, outsider! Too tall."

Ranma laid his hand palm up on the table. He curled his fingers, and a spike of ice emerged from his sleeve, into his grip.

"I ain't asking."

The rope-maker scoffed. "A threat? Violence doesn't frighten me. That's only more trouble for you."

"And it's trouble for you if I rat you out to Sindoor. I've been out for two days, and I've got friends with the Phoenix who are probably fighting for their lives against your people. I don't have time to screw around! Get me to Mount Phoenix, and _maybe_ I can stop Wuya like we both want."

Inconvenient this outsider was, but more inconvenient because he spoke the truth.

The rope-maker glanced down both ends of the bazaar. Left and right, four of the Sorcerer Guard approached. There would be no explaining this meeting between them, not this time, not unless these men were the ones she needed, ones who would obey her word. She hunted for the coil by her feet and pulled out a length of red-dyed rope, draping it over the front of the stand. The guards took notice and stopped in stride, turning their backs to the affair.

"There's a rock behind us at the edge of the forest. Wait for us there."

"You got everyone in the Guard in your pocket there?" asked Ranma.

"No, but our numbers are growing."

Growing numbers were all well and good, but for numbers to be good, they had to be willing to act. As daylight passed, Ranma crouched behind the gray boulder, waiting for his "allies" in the Sorcerer resistance. If that's what they wanted to be called, anyway. It seemed they liked doing things their own way—with their own names, places, and more importantly, their own times. Midday waned to twilight, and only then did they come. They were four in number, the rope-maker among them. Her companions built a quick fire, boiling water in a clay pot.

"Outsider, take this." The rope-maker offered a black piece of cloth. Too big for the wrist, too small for the belt…

"Oh no; no way. I ain't letting you guys blind me."

"I won't let you see our faces."

"I've already seen your faces."

"Our _other_ faces."

Ranma raised an eyebrow. "It's going to take a lot to get me there, huh?"

"All four of us, at full magical strength, and even then, we won't be able to follow. It takes that many just to complete the ritual."

"You're not coming?"

"Your disappearance will be hard enough to explain away. Ours would be even harder."

"All right, all right." Donning the blindfold, Ranma let the rope-maker and her companions guide him to the circle, as close as he could get without sitting in the fire itself. "You know, if you stab me now, I'll haunt you from the afterlife, you understand?"

"Believe me," said the rope-maker, "the last thing I want is to hear your voice coming from an unkillable specter."

Pop, pop, pop! Smoke tickled Ranma's nose. The smell was familiar somehow; the flames rose palpably as something pungent was added to the fire, but he couldn't place where he knew it.

Splash. Water hit the dirt. Splash splash.

"Hey, at least let me borrow—"

Splash. The pot clattered on the floor.

"…some."

"Be quiet," said a voice in hushed whisper. "The ritual requires absolute focus."

Somehow, he knew that voice, too, but whoever it belonged to drowned out his thoughts with humming—loud, excessive humming, a hum to block all else out. The four Sorcerers aligned their tones in familiar chords, and soon, the harmony let Ranma's thoughts drift. Much rode on his success. For all the people who came after him, came to save him—for Shampoo and Ukyō, Mousse and Ryōga, Konatsu and Cologne—he would go to Mount Phoenix so he could fight alongside them and not make them go to battle in his stead.

And, for the one he hoped was nowhere near there, he'd fight for her, too. To come back to her, to reclaim his manhood, to go home again.

Sometime, anyway, when these damned Sorcerers were done with their incessant—

"Whoa!"

Thud. He tumbled; his ankle bent. He fell to rock and dirt. He ripped off his blindfold, but the wind already told him what his eyes had yet to see. Gusts whipped at his shirt and rang in his ears, for in the distance, dark clouds hovered over a narrow spire—a mountain it was, all natural, but the storm that engulfed it was not. Swirling winds and sheets of rain enveloped the mountain, the tidings of a battle underway.

And so, Ranma marched to Mount Phoenix alone, with lightning to cast shadows at his back.

* * *

Be sure to check back this Friday, December 31, as _Identity_ resumes its weekly posting with "The Battle of Phoenix Mountain" Part I - "Down Below the Talon's Edge," and for updates, notes, and commentary on this chapter and others, check out my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	34. Battle I: Down Below the Talon's Edge

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** The Sorcerers have besieged Mount Phoenix, and for Keema and Cologne's forces, it's a fight just to hold them off and survive.

* * *

**Down Below the Talon's Edge**

_Chapter Six, Act One_

"What do you see? Anything?"

"Do _you_ see anything?" asked Ukyō.

Mousse wrinkled his nose.

"Right, wrong person to ask." Ukyō peered through the hole in the rock, shielding her face from raging spray. "No," she said. "It's soup out there, and not the kind I like."

That "soup" was the torrential downpour that shrouded the mountain in gray. The wind roared and burrowed through any crevice or crack in the rock face, penetrating the mountain with a drafty chill. A trickle of water flowed down the passages within, for with this constant deluge, the runoff had nowhere else to go. In such inclement weather, one might expect the denizens of Mount Phoenix to barricade themselves in the interior, safe from wind and rain, and indeed, that's what most of them did, but the burden for defense rested on those who let the hurricane tear at their eyes, who let the monsoon engulf them until there was naught a dry place left on their bodies.

Thus, the party from Nerima, save for their leader Cologne, patrolled the passages of Mount Phoenix with their eyes turned ever-outward, vigilant for looming shadows in the gray rain.

"Sorcerer!"

The words echoed through the mountain like a siren. Archers inside and out took to positions, but into the mist they fired blindly. Their arrows twisted and tumbled in the whipping wind.

BOOM! The mountain shook. Rubble tumbled past the window, spiraling to the earth.

"Above!" said Shampoo, and the party followed her. Toward sounds of thunder they ran, for the ki magic lit the tunnels with the glow of ten billion watts.

That's a lot of lightbulbs.

WHAM!

But Hibiki Ryōga felt no qualms about breaking them. He clubbed the Sorcerer with his umbrella and batted him into the wall.

And he wasn't the only one. Shampoo and Akane dashed ahead—Shampoo with her pair of chúi raised high, Akane with a simple spear, primitive but no less deadly. Amid the bodies of downed Phoenix they charged.

Duck. The Sorcerer dodged a crushing metal ball.

Duck. And another.

Rip. But Akane took a cut from the goose, ripping his tunic at the side. Naught but a scratch, but it drew first true blood.

"Akane-chan, Shampoo, look out!"

The girls braced themselves, and with good reason—in the maze of tunnels where just one Sorcerer had been their prey, three more foes spawned from nothing, as if they'd stepped from a cloak of shadows into the light.

And there was much light, for their hands bristled with sparks.

ZAP ZAP ZAP! Bolts of lightning coursed through Shampoo's body. Her maces, like a pair of grounding rods, attracted the arcs, but Shampoo bore them. As her muscles twitched and pulled, she willed herself forward, stared down the first Sorcerer she spotted, and hurled both her weapons, catapulting them end over end.

Crunch! Two maces to the ribs brought a Sorcerer to her knees.

"Move this way!" said Shampoo, pointing down the open hall. "Go!"

Fleeing ice and lightning, the party dashed past the crippled Sorcerer, a fireball nipping at their tails. They turned a corner, and—

"Gah!" Ukyō fell backward, slamming on the rocks.

"Are you hurt?" asked Konatsu, helping her to her feet.

"Something—" She clutched her throat, trying to swallow. "Something hit my neck."

"Really?" said Akane, her eyes searching the tunnel. "What could've reached out and—"

Konatsu looked up. "Akane-sama?"

Akane pointed a single finger at the tunnel wall behind them. Jutting from the rocks was an outstretched arm which fused into the wall halfway between the elbow and where the shoulder would be.

Where the shoulder should've been.

"They must've teleported right into the mountain," said Mousse. "I hope he died quickly."

"I don't think he did," said Akane.

"Why's that?"

Her voice fell to a whisper. "The fingers are moving."

They weren't just moving. They clawed at air, shaking.

"Dammit, couldn't you have watched a little _Star Trek_?" said Ukyō, smacking the hand away. "Then you'd have known this was a bad idea!"

BLAM! An ice spike pounded the wall behind them.

"Time to go!" said Mousse.

Ryōga ducked his head. "You know," he said, "I hope we have more of a plan than run away and run some more!"

"Of course we have plan." Shampoo pointed the way with her mace. "We make left here; hurry!"

Left they went, and the reason for Shampoo's strategy became clear.

"Clear the middle!" said a voice at the end of the tunnel. "Quickly!"

The group divided left and right, and down the center of the hall traveled waves of pressure, tight and focused—

WHAM WHAM WHAM!

…which pinned and pummeled a trailing Sorcerer against the rocks.

"The wings of a Phoenix tribesman move air like no bird in nature can," said Keema. "You'd be wise to remember that, Sorcerer!"

"And they'd be wise to heed me, as well!" Into the fray sped Cologne, whose short, nimble stature let her dart between her two remaining foes. Like a ghost, she struck her victims: a shattering blow to the back of a knee, a jab to the neck, a hard club to the groin. And for all their elemental magic, the Sorcerers feebly defended themselves—her punches cracked their ice shields and drove the shards against their skin.

But that wasn't Cologne's only weapon. From down the length of the tunnel, Shampoo drew her bow and fired—flit flit flit! And Cologne, so small and quick, put her enemies in the line of fire instead of herself.

"Isn't that dangerous?" asked Akane. "You could miss them and hit her."

Shampoo launched another arrow, catching a Sorcerer in the arm. "I no miss."

"Nor will I," said Keema, and with a powerful flap, she shot a compression wave down the tunnel, sniping a Sorcerer too distracted by Cologne to notice.

Crink! But Keema's offense had distracted her, too. A beam of cold encased her right wing in ice, bringing her to a knee, and down the tunnel, the shooter stood tall despite the threat of Shampoo's arrows and Cologne's blows.

"It's her," said Akane. "Wuya."

A hit from her staff opened fissures in the floor. Her static-charged punch singed the hair off the back of one's neck. Captain Wuya was a formidable adversary, and unlike her subordinates, with Cologne she could spar and fight and almost make contact, leaving no vulnerability of her own.

But her men were another matter, and faced with a sizable force against her, Wuya gathered her wounded and made a wise retreat.

"Give them no quarter!" said Cologne. "After them!"

And after the Sorcerers they charged—Mousse, Konatsu, Ryōga, Shampoo—but one of their number raced ahead first.

"Akane-chan, careful! She can—"

She can slide her staff down the length of the spear and crush her foe's knuckles, disarming her. She can grab her by the wrist and hold her there, staring, just as Wuya did to Akane.

"Oh gods," said Ukyō, turning away.

But whatever fate Ukyō expected Akane to befall, instead the Captain of the Guard narrowed her eyes instead and flung Akane into the tunnel wall.

"Akane-san!" Ryōga ran to her side. "Are you—"

Cologne slapped his hand away. "You fool! Don't touch her!"

"Why?" Akane asked, wearily. "Why can't you touch me?"

The Amazon matriarch squinted, studying her. "Because if you don't turn to ash in the next three seconds, you'll be lucky that Sorcerer didn't kill you."

"Great-grandmother, here!" From the direction of the Wuya's retreat, Shampoo called out. "Sorcerer go this way!"

The miracle of Akane's life they marveled no longer. Though the tunnels they gave chase, but soon enough the rock turned to ice. Slick and slippery, it hampered them, for they struggled for handholds and sure footing on the frost. As it turned out, this delay was critical, for it bought the Sorcerers precious seconds—

"What is this?"

…to barricade themselves behind an ice wall, safe from reprisal. Wuya and four of her men hid behind a meter of solid ice, blocking the rest of the tunnel behind them.

"My, my," said Cologne, tapping her walking stick on the surface. "You must be true fools to think this by itself—" WHAM! She punched, breaking a superficial crack. "…will stop us for long!"

But inside, Wuya smirked. She called to her men and gave them fire from the palm of her hand. Her four warriors, though wounded, could sit in peace and concentrate, safe behind the wall.

"What are they doing?" asked Keema, struggling with her frozen wing. "What is this ritual?"

"I don't know," said Cologne, "but I can't imagine it bodes well for us!"

And so, eight warriors beat and bashed on the ice wall, but the Sorcerer Wuya pressed her palm to the inner surface and healed the chips and cracks as they appeared. The hum of the ritual grew louder, and then—

Then, where there had been only five Sorcerers, now there were six. The ground rumbled and ice columns riddled the tunnels; the Sorcerers' foes fled for their lives. Only then did the Guardsmen hum again, to call forth their brethren with a sinister song.

#

"It seems they're content to summon their kin into the mountain and wait until they have overwhelming numbers to slaughter us." Cologne frowned, and the microphone tilted in her grip. "A clever strategy, I must say."

"And?" said a voice, fraught with static. "What have you tried to root them out?"

"Not much as yet. Keema sent her men from the base of the mountain to pressure them, but all that has done is box them in on both sides. Perhaps that will keep their forces limited, but I don't see why they can't expand their area of control to keep up with their numbers. It is…a weak victory at best."

BOOM BOOM CRACK! Thunder rippled through the air and popped the speakers of the radio. In the midst of the storm sat Cologne on a stool, where once Keema had made her throne. Curtains protected the open-air platform from the elements, but only so well—the wind pulled and tore at them; the rain soaked through and dripped to the floor. A stream of water funneled down the centerline of Saffron's court. Water was dangerous to Cologne, for even a few droplets could short her radio or the generator that powered it. That's why she put them (and herself) on rocks or stilts, to protect them from the deluge, but alas, if this rain kept up, they would all be underwater, in more ways than one.

"The Council is reluctant to send a relief force," said Cologne's partner on the other end. "The spring ground is much closer to us, and if the Sorcerers should move from there…well, that is their reason for monitoring it so closely."

"That is old-style thinking, Surma! The Sorcerers can will themselves to a place with magic now. They needn't march for days across the plateau, not in numbers, not _en masse_. If the Sorcerers wish to attack us, they will drop from the sky among our homes and strike before we've left our beds. Sorcerers are _here_, and it is foolish to worry about where else they could go."

"I'll remind them of that. But even so, Teacher, we can't move on 'rivers of ki,' as they say. Once we set out, it will be two or three days at our fastest march. Will you hold out that long?"

Runoff from the rain surged against the stool, rising to a hand's width from the floor.

"We'll survive," said Cologne. "That's all we can do. Check in again this time tomorrow. Let me know if that hawk-nosed witch and His Baldness have managed to agree on more than the weather, hm?"

Surma laughed. "Sometimes, I think the other would stand in a downpour and say it's sunny just to spite the other."

"My point exactly. Good night, Surma."

"Good night, Teacher."

A flick of a switch, and the circuits dimmed. The generator went silent. Cologne shook the container of fuel beside her, and gasoline sloshed within. Even at half a can, it didn't feel like enough.

She hopped off the stool and trudged through the flood, heading back to shelter below. Shelter it was, but not safety. _Safety_ implies freedom from attack, and this was no place of freedom, no refuge for the weak.

The weak were everywhere. Rain dripped off their skin. Blood splattered on the floor, mixed with tears. This place was Keema's command post: her court in exile and hospital for the wounded, the hungry, the sick. By the light of burning oil, Phoenix warriors tended the cuts and scrapes inherent to battle, but for all the water that trickled from above, none of it could cleanse or flush a wound. True, it could be collected and boiled—then it would be fit to drink or clean, but that took time.

And not everyone had time.

"The bandages ran out twenty minutes ago," said Mousse, who dressed a woman's gash in a strip of multicolored cloth. "And this is all we have left of the rubbing alcohol." A thin film of liquid clung to the base of the bottle. "We're going to have to improvise."

"Thankfully we're not completely helpless when it comes on forsaking modern medicine," said Cologne.

"True, but we can't exactly go foraging in the woods for medicinal herbs right now, can we."

Cologne sighed. "Indeed. Perhaps Surma will bring some supplies, but right now, I worry whether the Council will send aid at all—and even if they do, I doubt our fuel will last more than three or four days. That could well be too late."

"My, what a pity." From a corner, Keema rested her frozen wing among a collection of torches, thawing the ice that gripped her. "I had so hoped the Amazons would be able to join us in force. Whatever shall we do."

"For the leader of a people under siege, you seem eager to deny yourself aid."

"We can defend ourselves," said Keema. "Make no mistake: you may be our allies of convenience for now, but that will not last. I, for one, am intent on defending this mountain with what I have. Korma, if you please."

The captain's aide handed her a scroll, which she smoothed out over the floor. A map of the middle levels it was, with a section highlighted in deep blue ink.

"Make no mistake: the crisis we face is no fault of our own. This is Ranma's doing, and you and your Amazons, as Ranma's allies—I feel no need to welcome more of you. I feel no need to forget."

"Shall we put aside the rhetoric for a moment?" Cologne shook her walking stick at the map. "Show me your plan to rout the Sorcerers, or I'll take your confidence as that of a fool."

With the back end of a brush pen, Keema pointed at the circled area on the map. "This was the region of Sorcerer control an hour ago. Already, it has expanded…" She dipped the brush in a well of ink and traced out a larger oval, enveloping the old one. "…to this extent. I would estimate there are at least forty Sorcerers within, and I know of no way to stop them directly."

"They're like batter on an open plate," said Ukyō, snapping a stick to make a splint. "They just expand and expand until they drip over the side."

The room stared.

"What? It's true."

"Maybe so, but what's next, Kuonji?" asked Mousse. "You're going to tell us the rush of battle is like preparing lunches for a birthday party?"

"She's got cooking on the brain again," said Ryōga.

"I do not!"

"But Ukyō," said Akane, "your hands are shaking."

The okonomiyaki chef clenched her fists, dulling the tremors. "They are not," she said. "Just make sure there's no sauce around, will you?"

Keema cleared her throat. "At any rate, I won't allow these Sorcerers to summon more of their kind unchecked. We must contain them."

"If another chef starts taking your space, do what I do," said Ukyō. "Put down a leek in between so his batter doesn't get mixed with yours."

The group stared again.

"I'm serious; it works!"

Konatsu plucked a spatula from Ukyō's belt and placed it in her grip. "It's all right. Just take a deep breath: in and out, in—"

"I'm not in cooking withdrawal!"

"Ukyō sure about that?" asked Shampoo.

All quarreling over Ukyō's sanity aside, Cologne and Keema kept to the question at hand. Keema's brow furrowed, and she circled a set of disparate points on the map, all above the circle of the Sorcerers' control.

"What are you thinking?" asked Cologne.

"It's not enough to 'put down a leek.' We must gather them like a squirrel gathers nuts. Once they're contained in a sack, we can crush them underfoot and sprinkle them over our soup."

"My, it seems what Kuonji has is contagious."

"Be serious. The Sorcerers are a danger if they can muster the forces they gather, but if they have no way to get to us, if all routes from their foothold are demolished—"

"You're insane!"

"I'm not." Keema nods. "We'll destroy the tunnels and crush them under the weight of the mountain."

#

And though it was madness, in Cologne's words, the party from Nerima prepared for battle once again. In the privacy of their quarters, they cleared the central room of sleeping bags and supplies, and there spatula met hook and hidden chain.

"You rely on your trickery too much, duck boy!" said Cologne. "Her weapon is large and clumsy; you have the reach advantage otherwise! Use it!"

Ukyō turned her back hand over and swung!

WHIFF! Mousse backed off a step, dodging the blow. With Ukyō off balance in her backswing, he rared back and brought forth a furious fist!

…only to stop a hair's breadth from Ukyō's nose.

"Good!" said Cologne. "At least, good from one of you. Kuonji, I know you know better than to take such a laborious stroke. Power swings will do you no good if they leave you open."

"Well excuse _me_ if some of us just fought a battle this morning and we're back to training by mid-afternoon!"

"We all have that against us," said Shampoo. "Only tired ones should be those who actually hit a Sorcerer, yes?"

"Why you—"

"Children, please, behave yourselves," said Cologne. "And that goes double for you, too, Shampoo!"

A single, silent nod was all of Shampoo's answer.

"Now then," the matriarch continued, "I'm not asking you to deliver full power with your blows, but I expect your minds to still be sharp. Keema is making a serious strategic mistake, but I see no reason to turn that into a tactical loss, as well. We must necessarily be at our best. Shampoo and Hibiki, take the floor. Show me what you can do."

Ukyō and Mousse collected their weapons and vacated the center. Shampoo clenched her fists, maces in hand, while Ryōga spun a bandana at his side.

"Begin!"

The combatants charged. Metal spheres whirled and and jabbed at their foe, but Ryōga batted them away like paper fans.

"Say," asked Akane, sitting on the sideline with Cologne, "why do you think Keema's plan is such a bad idea?"

"Need I list the reasons?" Cologne scoffed. "Yes, let's take as much black powder as we can muster and cave in the passages, bury the Sorcerers under rock. That will still leave them with everything below us. That's a good third of the mountain lost to us. Even if we should walk outside the mountain, on the winding stairs—"

BAM! A bandana plowed through the wall, opening a hole to the outer passage.

"What did I tell you?" shouted Cologne. "No environmental damage!"

"I just missed is all!" said Ryōga.

"Well, don't miss!"

Ryōga gritted his teeth but fought on with no further protest.

"At any rate, an enemy that flies has rendered the defenses of the mountain pointless," Cologne explained. "If, as I suspect, the Sorcerers don't bear on us because they can't gather their forces in one place, well—" She huffed. "Now they have. By this point, the Sorcerers control an entire level of the mountain. To crush them means to forsake the inside path and everything beneath them, for in this weather, I doubt any travel on the outside is safe. The winds are treacherous, the rain is blinding, and half of these Phoenix are cursed to pass as humans, so in the rain, they can't fly at all."

"What do you think Keema should do, then?" asked Akane.

Cologne grimaced. "To criticize is easy. To do better than another—that is truly difficult. I can't fault Keema for wanting to bury these Sorcerers where they sit, but I fear we will repeat this concession again and again, giving up territory to the invaders until we have nothing left. It should be a terrible decision, to give up so much for the sake of time, yet Keema…she seems all to eager to do it."

"Ha!" Shampoo's mace halted mid-stroke, tickling Ryōga's ear.

"Well, well!" said Cologne, tapping her walking stick. "It seems you've lost none of your champion battle prowess, my child. Very good."

"I'd have taken the hit," said Ryōga. "And four or five after that."

"Doubtless you would've—I trained you to be so—but let that be your last defense and not your first, Hibiki Ryōga. Only then will you be truly deadly."

"Indeed," said Mousse. "Only then will you defeat your foe—by taking more concussion blows than he can. After all, when's the last time anyone won a fight with a punching bag?"

"But any one of us can punch _through_ a punching bag," said Konatsu.

Amid Ryōga's chuckles, Mousse fumed. "That's not the point!"

"Enough bickering," said Cologne. "Tendō faces the kunoichi now."

Armed only with his fists, Konatsu entered the improvised ring. "I hope you won't be too hard on me, Akane-sama," he said, bowing.

Akane undid the head of her spear, wielding it as a simple stick. "But Konatsu, you're a genius kunoichi, remember?"

"It's custom to say," he explained. "To praise your opponent before you praise yourself."

"Ah! Well, that's good, but you should have more confidence in yourself and—"

"Begin!"

SNAP! The spear shattered in splinters, and only Konatsu's fist remained.

Shampoo frowned. "He cover three strides before Great-grandmother close her mouth…"

Cologne twitched. "Did I not _say_ 'no environmental damage'?"

"A spear isn't part of the environment," said Konatsu.

"That's not the point, either!"

"Now, now," said Ukyō, putting on a smile to appease both sides. "Maybe we can get back to sparring? Akane-chan does fine with or without a weapon."

Akane stared, her jaw open, her hands holding the fragmented stick that once was one, now in pieces. What Ukyō said wasn't strictly true, she thought. She may have done equally well with a spear, a knife, or her fists, but to say that she did _well_, in this company…

That wasn't true at all.

In many things in life, time feels like a relative concept—not the boosts and dilations of Einstein and Lorentz, of course, but to the human mind, it feels superficially similar. What should be a minute stretches to an hour, a day. When adrenaline pumps, the surge of blood flow overclocks the brain. We see and process detail that at rest we would miss.

But just because we can see a bullet zip by doesn't mean we can catch it. For Akane, sparring with Konatsu, it was like grabbing at the dark, blindfolded, hoping to catch a nine-millimeter round before it sped away—or worse, took a part of her hand with it.

WHOOSH! A fist buzzed her ear, clipping her hair but leaving her head unscathed.

WHOOSH WHOOSH THUD! A food landed square on her sternum; a light, pulled hit, but she staggered anyway. When had his foot even come off the ground?

"Tendō could stand to give one good sequence," said Cologne. "Carry on."

"Come on," said Ryōga. "She tripped him once already."

"Incidental. Carry on."

So it was luck, then, and luck averages out in the long view of things. Not over a few dice rolls or a dozen spins of the roulette wheel. It takes more than that to see the trend and shape of things, despite what any gambler may tell you. Once you've dug a hole with threes and twos, you can't count on the dealer to hand you pocket aces. That's luck.

And make no mistake: Akane was in a hole, just as the Phoenix were. They thought they could catch the Sorcerers unaware, surprise them with faulty shackles and an army waiting to strike, but the Sorcerers had aces hiding face-down for them, and with that, they took the pot. They beat the Phoenix back to the foot of the mountain. The defenders fled over the bodies of the dead and under a hail of arrows. The sudden rainstorm swatted bird-men from the sky as their wings disappeared and they tumbled below. Not all of them, mind—not even most of them—but enough to hear their bones crunch on the ground, yet never see a face.

Now, the Phoenix were in a deeper hole, clawing to get out, and Akane tried the same. More fight, more spirit—that would overcome his speed. She would land a clean blow. To the chest, to the head, to the leg—it mattered not where she struck, only that she channel all her might into the attack, so no one would doubt she'd hit him.

"Too much, Tendō!" said Cologne. "Contain yourself!"

Why? So she could dismiss her like before? No! No more! No more feinting and dodging! She would have her clean hit! One and only one! That's all it took.

She muscled her punches through the air. Her feet pounded the ground as if to crack it beneath her. Sweat beaded on her brow and trickled down her neck, her arms. Her muscles burned, but the real fire was her resolve, her determination. This match wouldn't end—not until her hand met the opponents' flesh and that flesh, not hers, gave way.

_You're not getting away from me._

She planted her feet.

_Not again._

She clenched her fist.

_Not this time, Ranma! _

And rocketed forth for the finishing—

WHAM!

_Ranma…you hit me? _

She blinked. Of course that wasn't so; she knew it inside, yet she'd convinced herself otherwise, but that's when adrenaline kicked in. It let her see clearly.

Konatsu's foot clocked her across the temple, and a curtain of black sent her into the night.

#

"I'm so sorry, Akane-sama!"

She sat up slowly, shaking off the pounding in her head. "It's all right," she said. "I'm okay…I think."

Ukyō elbowed Konatsu in the ribs. "Honestly! It's this guy's fault. Splitting into eight copies—"

"Seven copies, plus myself."

"_Eight_ copies with his—oh hell, what did you call it? 'Spider Devours Mosquito' technique?"

Konatsu nodded.

"Don't you sit there grinning! And wait a minute, wasn't that the 'Divided Pizza Attack' just last week?"

"I split into eight, so I have eight names for it. The Sting of the Angry Scorpion, the—"

Ukyō smacked him on the back of the head with a throwing spatula. "And? When you don't split into anything? Do you have a name for that, too?"

"Of course." He touched his index finger to his breastbone. "Konatsu."

A groan. "I should've seen that coming…"

Akane's teeth clenched; her muscles tensed. She rubbed her forehead, trying to massage the pain away. "Can you guys speak a little softer?" she said. "My ears are still ringing."

"Ah, Akane-sama, I'm sorry!"

"It's fine, Konatsu, really. I shouldn't have taken the hit in the first place."

A voice broke into the conversation from the far side of the room. "Is better we know now than later, is not?"

Akane shut her eyes tightly, shaking her head. "What do you want, Shampoo?"

"Is fate of weak to die. Those who no know how to fight well…" Shampoo crouched, meeting Akane's gaze. "…eventually fall. Better we know that you no should be fighting in first place, yes?"

'_If you go, you're just going to get hurt…'_

"Off with you, child." Waving her walking stick, Cologne chased Shampoo away. "Your breath is better spent anywhere but your mouth. Fight your enemies with your hands, not your friends with your lips."

"Whose friend is whose?" Shampoo muttered.

Akane gave Cologne a respectful nod. "Thank you for that. I don't need to be dealing with Shampoo right now."

"Do not thank me, Tendō. What Shampoo lacks in diplomacy, she makes up for in astuteness. If only your fighting skills were at issue, you could still be useful, you could be trained to overcome your deficits, but your issue is far more serious."

"And what's that?"

Cologne looked her in the eye—a glare as intense and cold as the arctic winter. "I stood beside you and asked you to do what was necessary for us, for Ranma, yet you refused. You wavered. If you don't have the will to stand against the Sorcerers, what _are_ you doing here?"

To that question, Akane had no answer.

As the gray rain faded to black, she tied her spearhead to a new, pristine shaft, and left the others to their training. She walked the passages of the mountain. She went everywhere and nowhere. She went up; she went down. She went around and around, for she walked, and thought, in circles.

It all had to do with the spear. The end had chipped off, blunting the tip. Jagged indentations marred the edge. The spear was dull. No doubt there was power in striking with it—the power to bruise and slice—but when it met resistance, would it cut? Or would it stop harmlessly, deterred by tendon or bone?

The teachings of martial arts were to the untrained warrior like a sharpening stone to a blade. True, it could make one deadly, lethal, but that wasn't the point. A blade is just as at home slicing through human flesh as a pear or a melon. It's a tool, and the discipline of martial arts is a tool as well—a tool for focus, for acuity of the mind and protection of body and spirit. The arts were meant to preserve, as a Buddhist might say. The arts give peace, yet to a girl who worried over how dull and useless her blade might be, they gave no peace at all. So she wandered—

"What are you doing here?"

…until she arrived at a place she hadn't thought to seek out.

"We must be alike," said Keema, beckoning her closer. "The night before battle keeps me awake, too."

With a squad of her warriors, Keema stood tall in the dim, fire-lit tunnel. Without a doubt, the Phoenix captain was strong, formidable, intimidating. She commanded a mountain with her will, and let no one question it—she could strike, claw, and rip her enemies with the best of her men. Her authority wasn't empty; it reflected that she was a defender of the Phoenix, more than anyone else.

And though some of the things Keema had done made Akane sick inside—drowning her at Jusenkyō, seducing Ranma with Akane's form, brainwashing the lot of them—the difference in mentality wasn't lost on her. Someone like Keema never regretted what she did for her people. In some ways, that was dangerous. In others, it could be useful. Whether that made Keema a force of good or ill…

Well, that was a question for another time.

Where shadows turned a corner, a pair of Phoenix tribesmen crept on the tips of their toes. They crouched low to the ground, folding their wings flat on their backs, and dared to peer into the dark beyond.

THWAP! An ice spike whizzed past and stuck in the wall behind them. A hasty retreat, and there was no more ice to chase them.

For the moment.

"They're just around the corner, huh?" asked Akane.

"Indeed. I thought it best to monitor their expansion myself, should the, uh…" Keema made a face. "Should the breakfast plans tomorrow need changing, that is."

"But isn't everything set for before—"

"Shh!"

Akane's eyes widened. "Oh! Right, breakfast plans. It, uh, should be a fabulous brunch, don't you think?"

Keema stifled a laugh. "Walk with me, Tendō—where even sorcerous ears can't hear."

"You're confident."

"It behooves a leader to be confident, to inspire her men even when she harbors doubts herself."

"So you have doubts? About the plan tomorrow?"

"I'd be a fool not to admit it—there are many ways this scenario could turn against us, yet I have no choice but to try. It's all about time. Cologne would say to hold out for her people. I, for one, can't be so optimistic. It's true I think we won't win this battle through attrition, but if we can buy enough time for a finishing stroke…" Keema nodded to herself. "That would do nicely."

"You have something like that?"

The Phoenix captain laughed. "Perhaps I shouldn't speak of plans that don't exist. This night, that's what worries me most, I think—that I have nothing to promise these men other than the courage they already wield." Keema motioned to Akane. "Here, come to this window, Tendō. What do you see?"

Akane held her torch to the night, finding only rain and black.

"Nothing."

"Out there, many of my people wait, cut off from the rest of the mountain. When we execute this plan, I'll be abandoning them. This time we buy is paid for in lives, in hope. Their hope. That is a debt I owe, and I should pay my life if I can't make good on it. We _will_ repel this incursion. In that, I accept nothing else, but I also know what I see: that when the sky is clear, birds with metal wings will soar above us. That in a few years' time, when Lord Saffron makes his transformation again, the masters of the spring ground won't be us. It may be Sorcerer or Amazon or yet someone else, but the trend of things, I fear, is that they won't let us in and drain the springs dry. They're not interested in anything that upsets their order."

"So when it comes to that, you'll fight back?"

"One does what one must." Keema glanced at the tip of Akane's spear. "One cuts with the blade she's given, however dull or nicked it may be."

Some do. Others have the chance to save the one they love, yet choose not to cut at all.

_Ranma…you said you'd be here. Are you gone because of me? _

She gripped the spear—one hand up, the other down—and turned it end-over-end.

"What are you doing?" asked Keema.

"I've done as much as I can with flint and grindstones to make this blade sharp. The only thing left for me to do is make it strike harder, stronger, faster. That all has to come from me."

"You train alone?"

No, never alone, for even when her comrades above abandoned her, she could always go back to the dojo. Though Ranma may have deigned to strike her with any force, he always had something to say about her skills. He'd yank the spear from her and say, "You hold your hands too close together. You can't exert any control that way."

Easy for him, perhaps, but that's why, when she looked down the tunnel, into the dark, she thought she saw him there, holding a spear, mirroring her moves, except when her form faltered, he executed the maneuvers with perfect grace.

"I do what I can, I guess," said Akane. "I think, for the first time, I see just how far I have to go, how far I should've come when I was at home, going to volleyball, trying to swim." She huffed. "Sheesh. It's not like Ranma trained all the time. He must've spent at least as much time reading manga or watching television. But then, he didn't have as far to go as I do."

And that's why, when the image of Ranma spun his spear atop his finger and caught it on the way down, it was just a fancy trick—an illusion, nothing real at all. It was the sort of thing Akane _thought_ he would do. As for the real Ranma, who could say?

"We all wield the power we have within us," said Keema. "There are always some who can't shoot an arrow as true as another, who can't bring the same might and skill to their swipes. That's not to deem their efforts any less critical to victory."

Akane eyed her spear wearily. "I can't get stronger overnight."

"Indeed not. Then again, perhaps you can contribute in another way."

Placing a hand on Akane's shoulder, the Phoenix captain crouched, watching Akane from eye-level.

"Look at me, child…"

#

"Do you know what time it is?"

Creeping into the dark room, Akane laid her spear in the corner and unzipped her sleeping bag. "Oh, sorry. Did I wake you, Ukyō?"

"Wake me? No, but you've been strolling about with a concussion and gone for hours. That's not exactly smart."

"Hours? It can't be. I couldn't have been gone for more than forty-five minutes."

"Are you kidding? We trained for another hour-and-a-half after you left." Ukyō turned over, grumbling. "I had to fight Cologne…"

Hours. She'd been gone for hours. How could that be? She went for a walk and spoke to Keema. It should've been half-an-hour, forty-five minutes at most.

Wasn't it?

She touched a hand to her cheek and waved her fingers before her eyes, but in the darkness, she couldn't see. A phantom cloak robbed her of sight…

It stole a piece of her mind and soul.

* * *

**Next:** Stranded outside the mountain, Ranma forces himself to master a new technique and do what damage he can to the Sorcerers outside. **The war for the new Sieve continues with "The Battle of Phoenix Mountain" Part II - "To Fly Like Faeries of Fables Old" - Coming January 7, 2011.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	35. Battle II: Like Faeries of Fables Old

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** Rebels in the Sorcerers' ranks managed to send Ranma back to Mount Phoenix, but now, a colossal storm stands between him and the battle within.

* * *

**To Fly Like Faeries of Fables Old**

_Chapter Six, Act Two_

Those who seek the masters' wisdom learn to brave any obstacle that might deter them. They climb the highest peaks. They swim the deepest seas. When they can no longer walk, they crawl, and when they can't crawl…

Well, you know the rest. In his short life on this earth, Ranma had weathered many an angry mob or swarm of animals. He'd known the sun when it burned its brightest and peeled the dead skin from his nick for days after. He'd stuck his nose into a blizzard and prayed it wouldn't freeze and fall off before he could light a fire to warm it. Thus, discomfort of the body wasn't foreign to Ranma.

But walking the hallowed grounds of a battlefield was.

The rain came in bursts. Waves of showers circled the mountain. The drops hit like bullets, splattering on the rock. Swirling winds spat rainwater at the eyes, the neck, into both ears; wherever rain had yet to reach, the incessant downpour and blustery gale quickly guided it to the right place. The wrong place. And in the fading twilight, there was no shielding oneself from the ever-changing angle of the storm. The best Ranma could do was raise his arm over his eyes and hope to catch the raindrops on his sleeve.

Trip, thud. But that didn't protect him from what lay at his feet. Blindly he felt for the obstruction on the ground. _Let it be a rock,_ he thought. _Please let it be a rock._

But rocks don't often wear animal skins or have broad wings sprouting from their backs. When Ranma found his feet again, he treaded on, shuffling his shoes on the muddy soil. Better to walk inefficiently than be surprised by what lay prone in his path.

He shivered. Hours ago the rain has soaked through his clothes, but only then did he start to feel the cold. He could blame the setting sun, of course, but spring days on the Tibetan Plateau rarely grew warm by any definition of the word. He could frame it as prolonged exposure to a torrential downpour, and indeed, that would be reasonable. That would be logical. That girl body always felt colder, didn't it?

Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with what he found in the mud, the dirt—the arrows, the snapped staves…

The bodies.

Bodies, corpses, casualties. Why did there have to be so many words for the dead? That was another word. For every cause and manner of death there was a specific word to describe it. Stabbing, shooting, strangulation. All ways to die in a battle, and maybe, Ranma thought, if he'd examined the bodies he found more closely, he'd have learned their fates, their stories, the tale of the battle that took place here, why Sorcerers blanketed the sky with water and wind, why no Phoenix flew that day.

Yet he dared not touch them beyond to see—to feel—that they were human, or once had been. How they died didn't interest him. It wasn't important, wasn't relevant. The dead were dead, and wondering why or how wouldn't bring them back. This was a war; death was inevitable, and reaching the mountain would only help him control _who_ would fall, not how many.

But that would mean beating this storm—blocking the rain that soaked him, stopping the winds that spun him around and knocked him off his feet. To that challenge, Ranma froze the rain as it fell into a square panel, a shield, for he was willing to bear the cold, the chill of ice against his hands. It was simple physics: the shadow of the ice shield stopped the rain before it reached his skin.

It was also simple physics to see that, in Ranma's haste to make an icy umbrella, he'd also built a super sail.

"Wah, wah—WAH!"

The panel of ice caught a gust, and off it went, like a boy and his kite.

If the boy became a girl in the rain.

And if the kite could carry him kicking and screaming ten feet off the ground.

"WAH—oof!" He slammed into the dirt. Under stars and moonlight, the storm had spat him out in the clear. Lightning flashed, casting strobe images of the rainstorm, but that was all. In the midst of the downpour, there was no telling direction, no finding one's way. There were only the rain, the wind, and the dead.

Ranma shivered. Free from the squall, the frigid air of the plateau leeched heat from his skin. Wiping the drops from his face, he turned his back on the maelstrom, making for the tree line. It was time to make a fire and warm his bones. With no light to guide him through the storm and no way to endure its punishments, he wouldn't reach the mountain—at least, not this night.

#

"Ah-CHOO!"

Sniffle, sniffle.

Daylight. The morning sun poked through the trees, and the fragile embers of a campfire flickered in the wind.

_Guess there's no shaking a night in the rain._ Standing over the fire, Ranma wrung the last drops of water from his shirt. _Note to self: when magicians offer you instant transportation to a faraway land, bring some basic supplies before you go: all-weather matches, a sleeping bag—_

"Ah-CHOO!"

_A good set of rain gear._

But all griping aside, he vastly preferred being under-equipped for camping on the Plateau than sleeping in the Sorcerer village for another night. With four men stuck on him at all times, Ranma had been a prisoner in all but name. This trick, this spell of the rope-maker's—it was just what he needed: to get back in the action, to rejoin the fight. It was more than he could've hoped for, and even having lost time drying his clothes and sleeping off his trek through the deluge, he looked back on the mountain and made a confident fist.

_I'm back, Wuya, and this time, I won't be stopped so easily. You and Tilaka—you can't violate my mind like that and think I'll forget it. The people you lay siege to are friends of mine, or at least some of them are, and the rest? I may not have done them any favors in the past, but they're not like you, either. They may not be the nicest people I know, but at least they're people. People with wings on their backs, but they're nothing like you._

Damp fabric in his hands, he gazed to the mountain, but out of a crisp spring day, dark clouds swirled over the peak and cloaked the spire in gray rain.

_What's the point of that? _ Ranma tugged at his sleeves, pulling the shirt over his head. _Making it rain day and night—what's that do for you guys? _

Whatever the reason, the Sorcerers' cloak of rain was effective. When rain splatters in the eyes from every direction, it doesn't matter if it's noon or night—either way, you're blind. You're at the mercy of the storm.

Instead, Ranma's gaze drifted along the horizon—where a group of immeasurable specks hovered over the treetops.

_Maybe the best way to find out is from the horse's mouth._

"Ah-CHOO!" He sighed, wiping the snot from his nose. "Dammit."

Battling the sniffles, Ranma snuck through the woods, unwilling to expose himself on the open plain. Maybe it was smart of them—to fly in circles and defend their camp, but that caution led him to them. That's the downside of protecting what's precious to you: make a show of force, and everyone knows you have something to guard.

Fire it was. Unlike Ranma's small flame, these fires billowed smoke to the clouds. On a nearby tree Ranma sat, using the shelter of the canopy to hide him from the airborne patrols. It was a thin protection, he knew, so he kept as still and quiet as he could, chewing only on a piece of bark to sustain himself, like a squirrel would.

_Hey now. You try going around the wilderness with nothing but trees and dirt. In a pinch, it's actually not that bad._

I thought we agreed not to speak to each other after that episode at Jusenkyō.

_You're the one talking to me, you know._

Because you spent too much time in the pouring rain. You could be feverish, delusional.

_You're right; I've got to be delusional to talk to an omniscient voice in my head who has a perverse fascination with squirrels._

Last time _you_ were the one killing the squirrels.

_Not real squirrels._

They looked like squirrels.

_They were _not_ real squirrels._

Walked like squirrels, talked like squirrels…

_Squirrels don't talk! _

Point. Shall we continue with the story now?

_Well, I was trying to do that, but then someone had to jump in with their sick squirrel fetish! _

…at any rate, the Sorcerers in the camp were right to fly patrols. They were vulnerable when they sat still, holding hands by the fires and humming Kumbaya. So focused on manipulating their environment, could they truly defend themselves?

_Maybe that's why they're so keen on drenching the place,_ thought Ranma. _It keeps the Phoenix from coming out and hitting them where they can't defend themselves. We're all out in the open here._

WHISH!

He ducked; he clutched the tree trunk. A pack of Sorcerers swooped overhead, and the turbulence in their wake swayed the branches above. They flew in formation to the mountain, but the storm didn't deter them. They cut through the winds and vanished behind the gray veil.

_So they can fly through it, but the Phoenix can't. If there's no way to get there on the ground and see what you're doing, then maybe from the sky._ He cast his gaze to the clouds. _Maybe from above…_

He hopped off the tree and landed, knees bent. Spitting out the piece of chewed bark, he strolled toward his campsite.

_I can do your magic, freaks. Just watch me._

Hey, are you just going to leave that bark there? That's wasteful, you know. The squirrels wouldn't nearly be done with it.

_Oh shut up._

#

All along, the secret to wielding ki as the Sorcerers did lay in the feeling channeled in the attack. For Ryōga, depression suited him, so he weaponized his despair in the Shishi Hokōdan. For Ranma, boldness and surity were more natural, and the result was the confidence-fueled Mōko Takabisha, but in truth, they were merely different aspects of the same technique: the ability to channel one's energies into a concentrated burst.

That wasn't to say the emotion felt didn't matter. Long ago, Cologne had taught Ranma how to quiet his soul, to make his fury cold, like ice, and indeed, that had helped him learn the Sorcerers' frost magic. Perhaps there was some other feeling that could freeze the water in air, but Ranma didn't know it. All he needed was one good means of calling forth that magic. Anything else was just a bonus, and the same, he concluded, would be true of flying as well.

The question, then, was which emotion, which feeling—

"To infinity and beyond!"

…would let him launch into orbit like a defender of the cosmos?

In the center of a small clearing, Ranma shot his fist to the sky, but alas, his feet had yet to rise from the ground.

_Cross off _righteousness_ from the list._ Folding his arms, Ranma strolled to the perimeter. _Hm, what was next again? _ He eyed the tree trunks up and down.

_Oh yeah._ "RANMA SMASH!"

WHAM, CRACK! The wood shattered, and timber crashed on the ground with a creak and a thud.

WHAM WHAM WHAM! He ran the perimeter of the clearing, punching his way through tree after tree. The trunks split, collapsing in his wake, and maybe, just maybe, the effects of adrenaline tinted his skin a pale green.

_Well? Did that do it? _ Huffing and panting, he collected himself. He hopped.

And winced.

"Ow!" Two feet on the ground, he took his knuckle to his mouth and sucked. "Splinter splinter splinter ow! Dammit."

At least he'd have no shortage of firewood.

_Yeah, that's comforting._ He spat out the needle of wood and rubbed his pricked finger. _Damn. There's got to be some easy way to do this._

Wasn't it asking a little much to fly the first time he really tried?

_Maybe it is._ Sighing, he crouched to the dirt, eyes following a spider as it passed. "Well," said Ranma, "don't suppose you're radioactive or genetically altered or something, are you?"

The spider jumped, spinning to face him. It raised its forelegs as if to ward off a potential foe.

"Fascinating, but I guess that's nothing unnatural. Pity."

Sitting among the dirt and weeds, Ranma closed his eyes and took a breath. The wind blew across his face. The sun showered him in specks of warmth on an otherwise chilly day. He was free, in some respects. The Sorcerers had no more hold on him, yet a connection remained. He was bound to Mount Phoenix and the occupants within it—those who came to save him, and those he'd come to save. Weary though he was of China, how could he go home and look that girl in the eye if he let things be?

"I'm Akane," she'd said once. "Want to be friends?"

He laughed to himself. Back then, she expected so little. She neither cared for nor wanted a fiancé; she offered a stranger her friendship and hoped for some back in return. It didn't turn out the way either might've thought, yet now, Akane would be right to expect more. Not just that Ranma would save his rescuers, but that he'd come back to her side and say the words he thought had never left his lips—words she wanted to hear and share with him for the rest of their days.

And when the day should come that he beat the Sorcerers back from Jusenkyō and bottled them in their village maze, when he could partake of the spring ground's cure and meet Akane as a full man for the first time…

He shook himself. _Let's not get ahead of ourselves. No need to turn to sap when there's still a lot of work to do._

But when it was all said and done, she'd smile, and far be it for anyone to take in that smile and not turn a little softer on the inside for it.

_Still,_ he thought, opening his eyes, _that's something I'll have to earn if—_

If he were floating ten centimeters off the ground?

"WAH—oof! Gah!" He rolled over, cradling his bruised behind. It didn't make sense. How could he be floating, _flying_, unless…

"You've got to be kidding!" he roared to the wilderness. "I'm not Spider-man or the Hulk or anything like that!" He grimaced. "I'm fucking Peter Pan!"

Whatever disdain he might've felt for being the stuff of children's stories, Ranma held to his happy thoughts and rose above the tree tops. He flew. He soared. Free to make the sky his domain, he performed barrel rolls and towering loops. He swam in the clouds until the sun turned orange and red in the western sky.

_You know, I think I can see why they like doing this._

And so, with the power of a smile to help him rise and fly, Ranma hovered over the dark clouds. He wouldn't mess with the winds longer than he had to. If he fell from above, straight onto the mountain—well, either he'd land near the summit or he'd crash on the slopes and tumble to a bone-crunching fall.

_Let's find out._

He let his happy thought fade and vanish, and with it went his lift. He tumbled. He fell. Like a skydiver, he spread his arms and legs, catching the air's drag, but no skydiver would be crazy enough, foolish enough, to fall straight through a lightning storm.

TEW! Tew tew. Flashes lit the raindrops in sparse, intermittent snapshots. The winds yanked and pulled at him: forward, backward, updraft, downdraft. It was a nauseating, unpredictable roller-coaster, and he was secured to the car with but one hand cuffed to the safety bar. Rain fell upward, blasting his eyes, but he blinked to clear them just fast enough, just soon enough, to see the rock face rushing at him from below.

WHAM! He spun aimlessly. Where was the mountain? Where did it go?

The gusts pushed him up and out. He wobbled, he tumbled, and at last—

Thud. He landed in soft dirt and mud, with the cool afternoon sun fading over his face.

_Dammit._ He spat, and a hint of red colored the saliva. On balance, if a busted lip was all he came out with after that fiasco, he could've stood to do worse.

He worked his way to his feet. He winced. He dripped. He sneezed.

"Ah-CHOO!" Sniffle sniffle.

What else could he have done? What else did _they_ do to navigate this maelstrom? Did their magic cut through the winds and give them safe passage? Did ice or fire protect them from the blistering rain?

_Come on. I spent most of a day learning this flying thing. I can't think up every trick in the book. I don't have that kind of time._

KA-PAM! An explosion! A fireball singed his eyebrows. From above, a trio of Sorcerers circled, lobbing fire and lightning bolts. CRACK CRACK CRACK!

The bolts zapped a square panel of ice; Ranma crouched behind his improvised shield, and from the top edge, a line of snowflakes shot out.

THWAP! The spike skewered a Sorcerer, pulling him inexorably to the earth.

BAM! A staff head blasted a crater in the earth. The pair of remaining Sorcerers descended to melee combat, swiping at Ranma with furious cuts.

"No you don't!" Ranma caught a staff in mid-strike and froze the shaft from end to end. A single kick separated the owner from his weapon, and Ranma parried the other swinging stick with his staff crossing overhead.

"You guys think you can ambush me?" THWAP—CHING! Ice shattered against ice; Ranma's kill-shot these Sorcerers had seen once. They needn't see it again to know to defend against it.

_Then let's get dirty._ CRACK! Ranma drove his staff through the ice shield.

"Here, catch!" He tossed the staff at the Sorcerer's hands, and—

Shing. He plunged a hand-held spike into the Sorcerer's chest.

The surviving Sorcerer scrambled to his feet and took off, fleeing.

_Don't think you can get away from me like that! _ Ranma dashed after him and leapt. He jumped; he floated. He sped past the Sorcerer, circling in front of him to catch a glimpse of the Guardsman's surprise.

"Yeah," said Ranma. "You should be surprised."

THWAP!

And with that, the last of the three fell.

"You should be afraid."

Ranma descended, hovering down until the tips of his toes touched earth again.

_Four, five, six…_

A small price to pay for survival, and indeed, there would be more. If Ranma couldn't fly to the mountain, if he were trapped outside, then there was nothing else to be done. The camp was in sight. The Sorcerers dreamt up this storm, and he would be the monster in their nightmares. He didn't need to be inside the mountain to do damage, and deal damage he would.

#

THWAP! An ice spike silenced a Sorcerer's hum; his fingers went limp in his brothers' hands.

_Seven._

THWA-ching! THWA-ching! Two more spikes shattered on shields of ice.

_They learn fast._

From their quiet meditations, the Sorcerers scattered, leaving the body of their fallen comrade behind. Pressure waves chopped at the trees, leaving lumber in Ranma's wake, but he dashed, leapt, and doubled-back, always a step ahead.

THWAP! THWAP!

_Eight. Nine._

Truly, more than flying with happy thoughts, Ranma welcomed the practice of channeling the cold. With one's soul and mind full of ice, one cares for nothing. One reacts to nothing. The warrior with the Soul of Ice defends his weaknesses; he doesn't cradle them. In his foes, he attacks vulnerabilities with precision. A sprained ankle, a broken rib—they are opportunities to be exploited, and the icy warrior takes no pleasure in capitalizing upon them. He strikes and wins. The pleasure from victory can be felt later, when no more of his enemies stand.

A shout. From behind a leader the Sorcerers rallied, calling down storm clouds to attack Ranma from above. Bolts zapped and charred the trees, yet still Ranma ran.

_I don't know you,_ he thought. _You're not Wuya; you're not even Xiu. You're nobody._

Antsy, the Sorcerers raised ice shields, but what Ranma hurled at them was no simple spike. It was a ball—a sphere, perfectly formed and frozen. It flew overhead on a lazy arc, and then—

Shink. Shink. SHINK-SHINK-SHINK! It sprayed the ground with spikes, slaying the Sorcerer lieutenant from behind his shield.

_And now you die like nobody. Now, you're just number ten._

In the calm twilight, he rose like an angel on a slow but determined ascent to heaven. He floated to the level of the Sorcerer patrols and met their stunned gazes.

_Guess what, bastards: you don't own the sky. You can't take it from me._

THWAP-THWAP!

_Eleven, twelve…_

Some of them dared to fly, to meet him above the trees and duel, but others—they only ran. They scurried to the trees like mice, and Ranma was the hawk who'd strike from above and pierce them with his talons. So easy it was. So automatic. THWAP, THWAP—

KA-PAM!

But even the mighty hawk should fear a shotgun shell. In this case, the shell was a fireball that exploded in Ranma's face. His ears buzzed. His shirt caught flame. He plowed into the earth, breathing in the dirt, the dust.

_Looks like I won't be getting this done all in one go, eh, Akane? _

Far off between the trees, the silent specter of the girl nodded once, but her eyes fixed on him, stern and unerring.

_Do you see? _ He rolled to his side, straining, yet still he kept his eyes on her. _Is it…all right? _

She made no move to respond. She stood there, watching him, and further out, draped in sunset's shadows, a group of faceless figures looked back.

_There're people behind you, Akane._

She broke her gaze and looked away.

_Akane? _ He followed her glance—

…and a line of snowflakes floated past.

SHING-THWAP-thud. Ranma raised a square panel, but the lance of ice deflected off. It bent his wrist and bounced away, taking with it a slice of his arm below the shoulder.

"Gah!"

The wound bled freely. It seeped. For that, he was thankful. If it gushed, he'd be in trouble. No, he'd be dead.

He'd certainly be dead if he didn't pay attention—to the Sorcerers gathering at woods' edge, to the man on the hill who cast lines of snowflakes in the air, binding Ranma to a piercing death…

Flick. An arrow wedged itself between the Sorcerer's ribs.

_What's this? _

The man staggered, clutching the shaft, but a storm of arrows bombarded felled him and those who couldn't raise a ice or flame in time.

"I fear there's no time to marvel our archery, child. It seems you have wounds in need of patching." A woman, wrinkled and gray, dragged Ranma by the wrist to the bowmen's lines.

"Whoa, wait, where did you come from?"

"A village far away," said the woman. "You might know it. As a matter of fact, I'm sure you do."

At their camp, the Sorcerers took cover behind tree trunks and boulders, backing off from the long-ranged attack.

"You're going to let them dig in? Let them retreat?"

"There are two ways to attack the Sorcerers: with numbers so great their magic makes hardly a dent, or numbers so few yet skilled that the raw power of ki magic can't come to bear. Alas, my archers here are neither of these. Having marched days and night to make our best speed here, they are tired, and their arrows are few. So I ask you, Saotome Ranma, will you leave with me? Or should we give you to the enemy and come back another time?"

A stern grimace on his face, Ranma put an arm around the old woman's shoulder and limped beside her to friendly lines. "How do you know me, anyway? Who are you guys?"

The woman smiled. "In my tribe there are twelve who represent the people—nine who cannot say their minds in public and three who do. Of those three who speak for the council, I am the third, and today, I lead the warriors of the Tribe against our enemies and in aid of our friends. My mentor and your betrothed by law are besieged in that mountain."

The Speaker made a fist.

"The Tribe of Women Heroes stands ready to make war on Sorcerer-kind once again."

* * *

**Next:** When Keema's plan to bury the Sorcerers goes awry, Akane's doubts get the better of her, leading to a critical blow to one of their own. **The struggle against the Sorcerers continues with "The Battle of Phoenix Mountain" Part III - "What Waits in the Shadow of Madder" - Coming January 14, 2011.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	36. Battle III: The Shadow of Madder

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** As Keema puts her plan into action, Akane holds the line against the Sorcerers, but her mind is clouded. Something lurks where her eyes don't see, and that blindness will cost her dearly.

* * *

**What Waits in the Shadow of Madder**

_Chapter Six, Act Three_

"So Ryōga bursts in, yelling something like, 'Akane-san! Is Akane-san here? Did you find her?' Well, here Akane-chan is, out like a wet match, and all he can do is shake her shake her shake her like she's an empty bottle of ketchup that won't give up the last drop! I mean, gods! It was five in the morning! Do you not sleep, devil boy?"

Mousse winced. "Kuonji, your figures of speech are killing us."

"You're just too _blind_ to see the genius in my words."

"Watch it, you petty…spatula scraper!"

" 'Spatula scraper'? Who're you calling a spatula scraper?"

"Enough!" Cologne rapped her walking stick on the stone floor. "Your explosive banter should be saved for another time, preferably after the real fireworks have gone off, hm?"

On the far side of the room, a team of Phoenix tribesmen carved a niche in the wall. An arm's length deep already, builders chipped and hammered at the crevice, for they brought with them a cart of assorted gunpowder derivatives and rockets—the explosive matériel to obliterate the remaining supports and bring the weight of the mountain on the Sorcerers below.

"All I'm saying is that I don't mind being concerned," Ukyō went on. "But didn't your parents raise you not to walk in on a girl as she's getting changed? I ought to lay you out for what you saw!"

"Oh?" asked Konatsu. "What did Ryōga-sama see?"

Ukyō gritted her teeth. "Nothing, thank gods! All his attention was fixated on Akane-chan, but that doesn't take away how I've been violated!"

"You do realize," said Ryōga, stifling a yawn, "that I'm in the room? That I can hear everything you say? I won't let you pull one over on everyone here. You were fast asleep when I barged in."

"Was not! I get up at five every morning to get my restaurant ready for the breakfast crowd!"

"But Ukyō-sama," said Konatsu, "we don't have a breakfast crowd."

"Yes we do!"

"And when the alarm goes off at five, you usually just yell at me to get the batter ready, to warm the cooking surface, light the—"

"Konatsu!"

"And then you go back to sleep until seven. Oh! Unless Ranma-sama came by the day before to pick something up. Then, you take fifteen extra minutes to—"

THWACK! Ukyō's battle spatula clunked over Konatsu's head.

"My point is that we were supposed to be resting for this great mission, and you two…" She pointed to Ryōga and Akane. "Your being out late meant I hardly got any real sleep either."

Konatsu beamed. "It's all right, Ukyō-sama—you're still beautiful without any beauty sleep!"

"Eheh, I suppose that's true…" Ukyō took a sliding step back.

"What's the matter?" asked Ryōga. "Isn't he your type? A studious, hard-working cross-dresser?"

"I may like to wear a set of trousers from time to time, but that doesn't mean I like my men in skirts!"

"Ranma's not above wearing a skirt."

"That's diff—mmh!" A hand clasped over Ukyō's mouth. Shampoo drew her mace…

And Konatsu caught it by the end, below the bulb. "What are your intentions toward my Ukyō-sama?"

Ukyō batted Shampoo's hand away. "What do you mean _your_ Ukyō-sama?"

"Ah, that is—"

"Two stupid people shut up!" hissed Shampoo. Her gaze shot to the chamber entrance, an open hollow in the rock that led to the interior passages. The room froze, yet echoing through the tunnels, some faint whispers remained.

With knowing glances all around, the group drew their weapons. Ryōga put his back to the inside wall, hiding himself and his umbrella from sight. Shampoo took position left of the door, and on the right, as voices and footfalls rose ever louder…

"YAH!"

Akane drove her spear forward and held it a hair's breadth from her target's chin.

"Are you crazy?" With dark skin and black wings, the visitor nudged the tip of the spear away with his forefinger. "You could've killed me!"

"As one should expect," said Cologne. "You're a fool, Korma, if you think you can approach these chambers without someone giving challenge."

"Hmph. Well, I guess it's good to see even you outsiders are taking this seriously."

"Is that what brought you here?" asked Mousse. "You just dropped by to check if we were paying attention?"

"I'd rather pluck my own feathers. No, Captain Keema asked me to tell you when our charge was planted. My men are pulling back to the next level. Yours should be the last."

"You're not staying?" Cologne huffed. "Keema seems quite confident this plan of hers will succeed."

"The captain felt too much movement all at once could make the Sorcerers suspicious."

"Is that so?" Cologne narrowed her eyes. "Yes, yes, I'm sure she did. Very well. If you're so eager to get away from the fireworks, so be it. Off with you."

Korma nodded. "Don't blow yourselves up."

With a sneer, Cologne watched Korma and his men go. Her gaze flickered to a pair of handset radios, which stood in a box separate from the firework cluster.

"That won't reach Keema from here, you know," said Ryōga.

"Indeed. And I suspect, even if it did, there would be no answers on the other end."

#

"So because Keema's actions don't make sense," said Ukyō, rolling her eyes, "_we_ have to be the ones to check it out. Honestly, has no one been paying attention? What Keema does never makes any sense!"

"Great-grandmother say we should look closer, not complain."

"Shh!" said Akane. "Do you want them to hear you?"

Shampoo and Ukyō eyed her strangely. "What, do they have super senses from the planet Krypton?" asked the latter. "Able to hear sharp needles drop in an empty room?"

"I'm just saying we should be careful.."

"Careful's fine. We're two turns away from them, and yeah, if we got any closer, maybe they'd blast us to pieces. Gods help me if I have to be dead quiet while we wait for what's probably nothing."

"Is not nothing if Great-grandmother say not nothing."

"Oh, yes, I'd love to know that first-hand…" Ukyō folded her arms. "And not just by hanging out with our ears pressed to the wall."

With Shampoo in the lead, the three girls huddled close to the tunnel wall. Perhaps Cologne had nothing concrete to suspect the Sorcerers of, but Keema's unusual tactics had piqued her concern.

"But for these diggers here," Cologne had said, pointing out the explosives crew, "we're alone. And if I were in Keema's position with people I claim not to wholly trust, either I keep them as spread out and separated as possible, or I do as she's done—I keep them in one place. With us as the last to finish this affair, I dare say Keema isn't entirely unhappy if we should end up with trouble while the rest of her people are safely above."

So faced with this potential threat, she sent Akane, Shampoo, and Ukyō to investigate the Sorcerers' doings. Whether she felt confident they could complete this task unnoticed…

"Well, at the very least," she'd muttered, "it'll get the three of you out of earshot, so I needn't listen to any petty bickering."

…let's just say that wasn't the first thing on her mind.

"One can hear much with ear and glass pressed to wall," said Shampoo.

"Again, not the point."

And it seemed her concern wasn't unwarranted, either.

"Is not?" Shampoo blinked. "Well, Ukyō right. Three of us no want stand here all day listening. Should take action." She smirked. "I say Akane go forward."

"Me?"

"Just poke head around corner there and pull back quick if Sorcerer shoot ice lance at you," she said, grinning.

Akane gripped her spear, taking a step. True, if all she did was dart around the corner and back, odds were she would avoid most of the possible fatal injuries…

"Oh no you don't!" Ukyō yanked her by the collar. "Don't listen to her; she's just trying to get you riled. After all, why would a girl who's grown up in the wilderness ask someone from real civilization to do her job for her?" Ukyō raised an eyebrow. "Or maybe she was never very good at hunting or sneaking around and the like, hm?"

Shampoo narrowed her eyes. "Is fine then. You stay. Shampoo show how sneaking done." She stormed down the tunnel, her bulbs swaying back and forth as she walked.

And her maces, too.

"My," said Ukyō. "She's not exactly subtle, is she."

"How's that?" asked Akane.

"She wanted you to go out there and get slaughtered."

"Oh, no, you don't really think—"

"I know it."

Akane peered out, clenching her fingers around the shaft of the spear. "You might be right."

"Don't tell me you forgot she tried to kill you."

"Of course not!" Akane glanced away, shaking her head. "I just can't understand it, though—to think anyone, even Shampoo, would kill for Ranma's sake…"

"You wouldn't?"

"You would?"

Ukyō flinched. "That's not—I mean, this isn't about me. I keep to my word, unlike that conman who ran off with my family's property and never meant to make good on his promise." Stern, she met Akane's gaze. "But you have to have thought about it. Say we get out of here and go back to Tōkyō. What then?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, say there's still the three of us plus that crazy flower girl. Whatever else happens, there's going to be a fight for Ranma's heart. Maybe not with arrows and knives, maybe not even with our bare fists, but it'll happen. Are you ready for that?"

Akane eyed the tip of her spear. "No, I don't think I am."

"Really? You mean it?" Ukyō laughed. "So that fool Ryōga was wrong then. I knew he had to be making it up."

"Making what up?"

"That you—" She stifled a giggle. "That you came down the morning we left and said point-blank, 'I love Ranma, and I'll do whatever it takes to get him back,' or some such. I knew that moron must've misheard!" She erupted in laughter. "What an idiot! I can't believe—"

Thud. The blunt end of Akane's spear hit the rock beneath their feet, and the sound echoed through the tunnel, reverberating even when Ukyō's snickers died out.

"I did say something like that."

"But you just said you wouldn't fight—"

"I won't fight because whatever contest or showdown you put in front of me for Ranma's sake, I won't be involved in." Her eyes flashed, staring Ukyō down. "Shampoo attacked me because I told her that, but I'll tell you the same. You can impress Ranma. You can earn his respect if you don't have it, but I don't know how to win his heart. Do you? Do you really think if you outclass everyone else who wants him in martial arts, in cooking, in everything else, that you can make him love you and you alone?"

Ukyō gritted her teeth. "So I see. It's easy, isn't it, to say you won't fight for what you think is already yours. Fine then! Just know this, Akane-chan: whatever you think your relationship is with Ranchan, I'm still here. His family still owes me. I'll do what I have to. Understand?"

Akane nodded slowly but said nothing.

"Good." Ukyō peeked around the corner, leaning past her, and stared into the dark. "That's just…good."

_No it's not,_ thought Akane. _It's definitely not because I lied to you, Ukyō. I don't understand it at all._

And even with the admission—to herself, to her family—that she felt drawn to Ranma, that she yearned for him, longed for him, loved him…none of that put to rest her confusion, her inability to comprehend what happened right before her eyes. Ukyō and Shampoo, for all their faults, possessed qualities that Akane could never have. They had initiative to pursue Ranma no matter how he might rebuff them. They had cunning to manipulate him when it seemed he might look to another. They had cleavage to attract him when his eyes might stray…

Akane frowned. Best not to harp on that aspect of it; she really might never have _that_ quality, no matter how she tried. Not unless she could convince the doctor down the road to become a plastic surgeon and give her a nice graduation present.

But none of those faults and shortcomings seemed to matter to Ranma. That's why Akane could say so confidently—to Shampoo, to Ukyō, to whomever else—that no amount of competition or duels of any kind would win Ranma's love, but what _could_ turn his heart even Akane didn't know.

That's why Shampoo baffled her. To have the moral indifference to murder was alien enough. To think it would endear her to Ranma, or that it would make it easier for her, despite the consequences…

Akane shook her head. That wasn't it at all, was it? Shampoo had long tried to separate her from Ranma. She wiped Akane's mind of all memory of him; she lamented that Akane was too stubborn to let it stick, for if it had, Shampoo wouldn't have attacked her then, many months ago, and tried to kill her before Ranma's eyes.

Was Shampoo's choice—to brainwash her first rather than kill her—an ounce of pragmatism? A measure of compassion? A little of both? Either way, something had changed since then. Akane wasn't merely an obstacle to Ranma anymore. Shampoo's biting words were like barbs under Akane's skin. "Those who no know how to fight well eventually fall," she'd said, and now, before the Sorcerers' foothold, she wanted to put Akane to the test, prove her inferiority as a warrior, and let her bleed on the stone floor with a spear of ice in her gut.

These were the marks of hate, and Shampoo wasn't the only one to bear them. Ukyō wore them differently, behind devotion to Ranma, dedication to a promise, an oath of honor, but whatever duty she felt, she'd made her intentions clear: when they returned to Nerima, it would be war. Maybe not the way Shampoo might wage it, but war nonetheless. And perhaps, despite her prideful words, Ukyō hoped as Shampoo did—that somehow, in her darkest dreams and fantasies, the girl who stood in her way might cease to be, by Ukyō's own hand or someone else's. She might push it from her consciousness or say she loathes the idea to Akane's face, yet the things we're too ashamed to admit wanting tend to hide in the shadows of the human heart. In a mirror maze, when what we see seems bent and distorted, perhaps the truth is shown in its clearest hue.

Looking upon Ukyō—how she clenched her teeth and stared down the empty hall, making no move to engage Akane, as if she weren't even there—the Tendō girl shivered. Such thoughts made the faint hairs on her arms stiffen and quiver. The mountain could hardly be called a warm and inviting place, yet now, trapped with two girls—one who definitely wanted her dead and another who might not mind to see it happen—Akane sank in the frigid doom around her, for unlike these girls, who seemed so certain that Ranma's love would make their world a fantasy, Akane was hardly so inspired. Truly, his casual smile, his burning determination—they could raise spirits for miles around, but so long as Ranma loved her yet she knew not why, she had to wonder: did he see her clearly, or was what he loved an illusion? Could he truly care for who she was, or was there something dark and ugly he'd yet to see in her—a phantom that lurked before her eyes, like the visions of Ukyō's dreams?

Like the memory of a night that disappeared in the shadows of her soul?

Her teeth chattered. Her toes curled with dampness and cold. _Maybe Ukyō was right. There's something I should remember. I should know why Ranma loves me. I should know what happened when I went to see Keema…but why is it so cold? _

"Akane-chan, water."

She opened her eyes, and a flow of icy water ebbed at their ankles.

"Bizarre," said Ukyō, dipping her finger in the wake. "If their ice were melting bit by bit, it should flow down, but we're above them."

"Unless," said Akane, "it melted so fast it had nowhere else to go."

The girls exchanged a glance.

Plink, plink, plink!

And Shampoo dashed past them, kicking up water at her heels.

"Run!"

#

Boom, boom, boom. Dust shook loose from the ceiling and scattered on the floor. Where the Phoenix buried their bomb, Cologne stood watch, her radio in hand.

"I'll stay with the charge—"

Z-z-zap! A flash of light shined from the tunnels, but its otherworldly glow foretold neither victory nor defeat.

"I'll stay with the charge," Cologne finished. "Keep those Sorcerers away and below. You have five minutes, gentlemen, to get the girls out, and not even for my Shampoo will I wait a second longer. Go!"

And so the boys charged into battle headlong, but a slick, icy tunnel robbed them of traction. They wobbled. They stretched their arms for balance, leverage, but it was futile. They tumbled face-first and slid into the fray instead.

"You want to keep a better look where you're going?" said Mousse.

"Oh? You think you can _see_ the way better?" asked Ryōga.

Konatsu snagged a handhold on the tunnel wall and dragged them both to their feet. "Less talking," he said. "More fighting, yes?"

Z-Z-ZAP! Lightning blasted a hole in the tunnel wall. Rounding the corner came the embattled defenders: Akane, surrounded, cut and slashed at the air, driving back her attackers with the frantic swiped of her spear. Fireballs bounced and ricocheted off Ukyō's spatula, but the flames pushed down the length of the handle, charring the polish on her fingernails. The lone aggressor of the bunch, Shampoo darted off the ceiling and pushed the attack against the enemy. Though a spike of ice ripped her sleeve, she batted a Sorcerer into the rock and charged further still, for no number of foes deterred her. She was a warrior of the tribe, and before her fists, her feet, or tempered steel maces, the enemies of her people would fall.

WHAM! But surely, she wouldn't begrudge some help from Ryōga's fist. As one Sorcerer rocketed down the path, Mousse and Konatsu laid waste to the others, for a sole kunoichi could spar with a dozen of the Guard, giving time for Mousse to draw his strange and exotic assortment of weaponry: iron chains yanked Sorcerers off their feet, and razor-hooks ripped at their hair, their eyes, their clothes.

"Come on!" Ryōga's umbrella batted away Akane's attackers; he took her by the wrist. "The old crone didn't give us much time!"

Over rock and ice they scampered uphill, lobbing steel-tipped arrows and cooking spatulas as they ran. Knowing the tunnels a fraction better than their pursuers, they put ground behind them for a while…

THWAP!

Until the fastest element of their foes caught them. A column of ice shot past, plowing into the end of the tunnel.

"Ahh!" Akane stumbled. Her hands and knees skidded on the rock.

"This is no place to lose your footing!" said Ukyō.

But a sharp, stinging pain pulsed from Akane's side. She put a hand to her hip and felt through tattered fabric. The skin was dry and cold.

The blood was neither.

"Take her by the arm," Ukyō told Konatsu. "Akane-chan's been hit!"

" 'Hit'?" said Ryōga.

Meekly, Akane held out her red, sticky palm. Fluids seeped from the scrape on her side, soaking into her shirt.

And down the hall, the way they'd come, stood Wuya, whose stalwart men filed in behind her.

Ryōga scowled. "All of you go on," he said. "Leave her to me."

"Were you born stupid?" said Mousse. "Do you know how much time we have?"

Shaking, he took Akane's bloodied hand. "It doesn't matter. Should I have to hold a minute, an hour, a day…"

He closed her fingers, and with tears streaming down his face, he kissed her on the knuckle.

"I would do it without hesitation."

_Ryōga-kun…why? _

He opened his umbrella and crouched behind it like a Spartan with his shield. Though ice and fire bombarded the canopy, he locked his fingers around the handle and shaft, so no Sorcerer would blast it from his grip, but even Ryōga must've known, despite his determination, that a battle of one versus a dozens of Sorcerers would be a hopeless cause. He must've known, for even he dared not engage them and risk falling in less than a minute's tick on Cologne's clock.

That's why—one can only imagine, at least—he pressed his bare index finger to the floor and, with it, shattered the tunnel to bury himself, and the Sorcerers, in tons of rock.

"Ryōga-kun!"

Ukyō and Konatsu grabbed her by the arms, holding her back from the sinking pit. "I'm sorry, Akane-sama," said the kunoichi, "but we really must go."

Her feet carried her, yet they worked on their own, for Akane's mind could hardly do the driving.

_Why, Ryōga-kun? _ She touched a finger to the back of her hand, to the knuckle where his lips had met her skin. _We've been such good friends, despite your problems with Ranma. I never understood why you fought so. Should I now? Could it be that you and Ranma weren't just competing with each other? The same way Ukyō, Shampoo, and I…_

"This way!" From a gray light at tunnel's end, Cologne's voice echoed through the halls. Toward rain and wind the defenders fled, but the rumblings of shifting rock gave chase. Into the storm the group emerged, for under the shelter of a thin canopy, both Phoenix and Amazon took shelter, waiting on the switch in Cologne's hand.

"Please, you have to wait!" Akane's weight came back to her as Ukyō and Konatsu released her. She fell to a knee before Cologne; her hands grasped at the elder's robe, tinting the cloth with blood. "Please," she begged. "Ryōga-kun's still inside! We have to wait!"

"You're on the run from Sorcerers!" cried Korma. "We can't wait any longer!"

Cologne frowned, stern and resolute. She marched to the rock face, radio in hand, and pressed her palm to the sheer wall of the mountain, feeling the pulse of battle within.

"Believe me when I say it, Tendō: it is no easy thing to sacrifice a child. I know—I've given up my own flesh for higher causes. Difficult as it may be, there are many reasons to do just that. I chose for my flesh the greater good. What would you chose for your friend in there, for Hibiki, hm?"

Akane shuddered.

"You still tremble with uncertainty? Well now, I know what I choose. Battles fought must be finished. The effort we expend seeking the truth and defense of others should not be wasted by indecision." She opened a covered switch on the side of the handset. "He made his choice, Tendō. I don't condemn him for it. Nay, I honor it."

Click!

BAM BAM BAM! Rubble blasted from the side of the mountain, spraying the plain below. Boulders tumbled and rained past the covered platform. Rock crumbled, breaking apart in slow-motion, and though the debris posed no threat to the defenders—the blast zones were a home run away at nearest length—the scale of the explosions rattled them all. It wasn't just their corner of the mountain that crashed down. Nay, from these fireworks, no pebble had been spared. Such the Phoenix had willingly done to save what was remained of their kingdom—they watched a piece of their lands shrivel, wither, and die in the Sorcerers' hands, and they mustered the wherewithal to cut that piece away, like a surgeon excises a frostbitten foot or a necrotic patch of skin.

Like Ryōga, who showed what he'd given—a piece of his heart to Akane, who'd never known, never thought, to take it. Like Cologne, who gave her blood and family for something bigger than herself. To give a life for something Akane understood—she'd made that sacrifice or prepared herself for it. She'd thrown her doll-like body into Saffron's fireball to save Ranma, not knowing she'd escape alive, but her life alone wouldn't buy Ranma's safe return. How could it? When the people around her—Ryōga and Cologne, Ukyō and Shampoo, the Phoenix and their enemies—would all sacrifice something more.

They'd give up pieces their souls.

And there was nothing demonic or evil in that. They'd give up their innocence, their family—everything that was dear to them, everything that made them whole. They were willing to lead fragmented lives to hang on tightly to whatever was left. They were willing to change. Nay, they expected it, counted on it—that maybe, when it was all done, they wouldn't be so different, they wouldn't regret they'd changed at all.

Ryōga—he came after Ranma for a grudge, and maybe, if things happened any other way, they would've settled it and he'd have gone. But he didn't go. He came back. He came back polite and kind, at least to her. Was he always that way, or did he change? Did he change to suit her?

Didn't Ukyō change? To bear the time until she found Ranma, she made herself look like a man. She would've given up cooking if it wasn't so ingrained in her.

And Akane?

She'd changed, too. She'd resolved to learn cooking. When did that idea come into her mind? Was it before he came through her door? Was it after? When she looked in the mirror and brushed the stray hairs from her face, did she do it because she enjoyed looking pretty? Or because she wanted _him_ to see it?

_No! It's not—_ She shook her head. _They're different! What these people give up to survive…what I do to save Ranma and how I look at home—they're not the same! _

Staring at the stone floor, her eyes found a puddle, a pool of dripping rainwater. She crouched over the surface, peering at her own reflection, but she saw only gray—a blank, empty, formless shadow.

"Come on then," said Cologne, tapping her stick on the floor. "I'd like to spend no more of my time in the rain than necesar—"

WHAM! Where rubble and boulders had blocked the tunnel, pebbles and dirt came loose, rolling from the exit.

"Ready!" said Korma.

The tips of swords, the points of arrowheads—all leveled on the once-sealed tunnel. The troops gathered in a semi-circle, awaiting the enemy breach…

Ka-thud.

But, to their relief, a boy plowed through the rock, clutching his umbrella and a dirty, spotted bandana.

"Ryōga-kun!"

"Did I make it?" he sat up, woozy. "Mama, did I make it home in time for supper?"

"This is a joke, right?" Ukyō strapped her spatula to her back. "You're telling me he found us after boring through tons of rock? That nit actually found something for once?"

Ka-WHAM! A blast! The defenders backed off, and Ryōga too scampered to his feet, clearing the way for spray of debris.

"On your guard!" said Cologne. "I shouldn't expect another of ours to come through that hole!"

THWAP! A column of ice shot through the tunnel exit and shattered! Shards peppered the defenders, cutting at their hands and arms as they shielded their faces from frozen shrapnel.

And through the breach stepped a lone Sorcerer, staff in hand.

"Fire!" said Korma, and the Phoenix warriors obeyed. They pulled at their bowstrings, sending a speedy shower of arrows to obliterate their foe.

Ching-ching-ching! The arrowheads dug into ice. A thin panel of frost shielded the Sorcerer, and he hovered to the edge of the platform, the precipice of escape, where the Phoenix people's great sacrifice would be all for naught if he penetrated the higher mountain.

Flick, thud!

But the Sorcerer, in his haste, forgot to protect his flank, and Shampoo's arrow stuck in his back. He crashed amid the fragments of his own ice shield, and the warriors of the Phoenix tribe gathered around their wounded foe.

KA-PAM!

…who greeted them with a flash of fire to their eyes. Embers seared their eyelids; their bows and daggers fell to the floor. Blinded, dazed, the Phoenix tribesmen wandered helplessly, feeling about the black that only their eyes could see.

"Give him no chance to flee!" said Cologne. "Attack!"

And attack the Nerima party did. Konatsu darted in the shadows of the walking wounded, lobbing shuriken from angles high and low, but the Sorcerer too was quick and crafty, and the throwing stars spun into the storm outside—or cut at the Phoenix who couldn't see them at all.

Into the maze of bodies they all charged—some more callously than others. Shampoo's maces worked furiously, clearing the forest of wounded souls before her with neither pity nor remorse nor fear, yet Akane found the wall of bodies immovable, impassable, and had to watch the fight from afar.

_There _is_ something wrong with me._

That's what Ukyō said, and she was right. Since the moment Konatsu snapped her spear before she even had time to blink, since she returned to her sleeping bag the night before to find it early morning instead of night.

'_One does what one must,'_ said a voice in her mind. _'One cuts with the blade she is given, however dull or nicked it may be.'_

Cologne's walking stick bashed in the Sorcerer's kneecap. He staggered, kneeling, but a flurry of lightning drove the Amazon matriarch back.

'_We all wield the power we have within us.'_

Shampoo's maces swiped under his chin. He backpedaled, limping, and blasted her feet with waves of pressure, carving divots in the floor. The blinded Phoenix tribesmen scattered from the blasts. They opened a whole for Akane, and for the Sorcerer to back into her bath.

'_Look at me, child…'_

"Tendō, strike at him!" said Cologne. "Quickly!"

She clenched the shaft of her spear. She gripped it with her right hand back, left hand forward, both from below—like a digger wields a shovel, to drive the blade into the Sorcerer's back, and slay him she would to protect herself and her friends. That much she would do to prove herself worthy of standing with them.

The Sorcerer caught her gaze, but it was too late. She planted her front foot; she thrust!

'_And obey your master once again!'_

Her muscles tensed. The blade halted, an inch from skin, but not the Sorcerer's flesh. A stray Phoenix warrior, clawing at his own eyes, had wandered into Akane's path. With one stroke, she could finish them both, and yet…

"What are you doing, Tendō?" shouted Cologne. "Strike! Shove the bird away if you must, but strike!"

She turned the spear to its blunt end and held it to the Phoenix warrior's neck, but even then, she froze. A force, invisible and silent, pulled at her. It was everywhere and nowhere, for it stayed her hand long before her brain could say otherwise.

"I—I can't!"

The Sorcerer laughed to himself. He batted the Phoenix warrior away, shoving him into Akane's body, toppling them both, and before the stunned Nerima party, he formed a line of snowflakes from his fingertips, connecting him to a victim who stood too close to avoid it.

"Child, move!" said Cologne.

THWAP!

Futile words they were, for though Shampoo left her feet, the spike found her. Her blood mixed with seeping rainwater in pools and swirls, forming the pale imitation of a shade of red.

It was the shadow of madder, the shadow in which Keema herself had hidden, lurking in the folds and crevices of Akane's mind.

* * *

**Next:** With Keema's control over them not yet extinguished, Cologne faces a terrible choice: attack the Phoenix and save their minds, or battle the Sorcerers and save their lives. **Phoenix and Amazon wrestle for reign over Akane's soul in "The Battle of Phoenix Mountain" Part IV - "Substances Immiscible" - Coming January 21, 2011.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	37. Battle IV: Substances Immiscible

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** Allies against the Sorcerers aren't meant to fight amongst themselves, but with evidence of Keema's duplicity, Cologne has no choice but to turn against the Phoenix and lead an assault against their hatchery—a sanctum second in sanctity and holiness only to the bedchambers of their king.

* * *

**Substances Immiscible**

_Chapter Six, Act Four_

Under a thin, leathery canopy, the forces of Amazon and Phoenix alike gathered in the shadow of madder. Truly it was a red shadow, for the blood of the living and dead mingled with the darkness, with the cold water that coated the floor. Korma and his band, a dozen strong, staggered about the platform with sightless eyes, grasping and clawing at the burns that turned their worlds black. One of their number lay toppled over Tendō Akane, who struggled to free herself from his weight.

And with an arrow in his back and a grossly disfigured kneecap, the lone Sorcerer who inflicted this damage knelt on his good leg, spent. The spike of ice he'd shot out stuck in the floor, wobbling in the wind.

It stuck through Shampoo's body. It spilled her blood on the floor.

"Bastard!"

The Sorcerer tumbled; a mad, crazed beast in white silk pounced upon him. It lashed the enemy's face with iron links. It bashed on his jaw and clawed his eyes.

"You think you can hurt Shampoo and get away with it?" cried Mousse, a savage fury driving his blows. "You think I'll let you live?"

The Sorcerer curled and wriggled his fingers, and from snowflake lines, spikes of ice shot wildly. They cut holes in the canopy, zipping blindly past Amazon and Phoenix alike.

"Bind him!" yelled Cologne. "By the neck!"

Mousse grinned. He dismounted his prey—a bloody pulp the Sorcerer was, with open cuts over his eyebrow and the bridge of his nose and deepening welts across his cheek and chin—and wrapped the magic chains he wielded about the Sorcerer's throat.

CRACK! The Sorcerer summoned a sharp slab of ice to his hand, beating on the chain links, but the metal held, shattering the block instead.

"There's more to my weaponry than what hides it up my sleeves," said Mousse. "I think you'll find it a bit stronger than you might expect, too. Stronger, even, than the spine that holds your head on your body."

In a powerful stride, Mousse dashed for the edge of the platform, dragging the Sorcerer to the floor. With the mountain looming on his left, Mousse gripped the chains with both hands. When the precipice approached, he planted his feet like an Olympian at the hammer throw, swinging the Sorcerer behind and around him, and gave his enemy a fearsome, neck-breaking spin.

CRACK!

He released the chains; he let them fly, and the Sorcerer flew with them. Not a controlled, magical flight. No, he'd have never flown this path.

Boom, boom boom. Somewhere in the deluge, a Sorcerer's body crunched against the rock face and tumbled to the earth below, and Mousse was the first to smile for it.

"Great-grandmother…"

But not for long.

"Lie back, child; lie still."

The threat extinguished, the members of the Nerima party gathered around Shampoo. The spike had pierced her cleanly, effortlessly.

It pinned her left thigh to the floor. Bent at the knee she kept the leg, for she had no other way to fall, to absorb her own weight from being caught unaware and mid-stride. The shaft bored a hole as wide as the handle of a baseball bat.

"You, Hibiki—cut some strips of cloth," said Cologne. "We need a bandage!"

"You're going to just leave that chunk of ice where it sits, sticking through her?" asked Ryōga.

"It's better than letting it bleed freely; as unsightly as it is, the ice is putting pressure on the wound. Kuonji! You have glue, don't you? A sealant?"

Ukyō made a perplexed face. "It's not for first-aid if that's what you're thinking!"

"It will have to do."

"Great-grandmother…" Shampoo's eyes wandered, drifting, vacant. "Is getting cold now."

"Child, you have the bloodline of hunters, leaders, queens! Do not let a flesh wound take that away from you!"

"Is hardly 'flesh wound.' "

"All things considered, you haven't bled out already. I've seen men fall from arrows to the leg much faster than this."

"So you think Shampoo will be okay?"

Shampoo twitched. As the others followed Cologne's commands, doing what they could to stabilize Shampoo, Akane looked on, peering over them at the damage her inaction had done.

"You have no right to ask that," said Shampoo. "No right to sound concerned."

Akane gaped, taken aback. "But I didn't—"

Shampoo lurched, her hands grasping at air, at space where Akane's neck had been.

"Sick of you!" she shouted. "Sick of Akane, sick of weak little girl! Weak of mind, of spirit, of body! What Ranma see in you I never understand! You worse than useless! You do nothing, and now my blood is spilled! This only way you know to hold on to Ranma, isn't it?"

"I did no such thing! I didn't!"

But as cold and uncertain gazes met hers, Akane wavered. Even Ryōga watched her with wary eyes.

"It was Keema!" she insisted, closing her eyes to block them out. "Keema did this; she held me back!"

"No one here is interested in your excuses," said Mousse.

"Akane-chan, really," said Ukyō. "How could you think that? How could you know that?"

"I felt her in my mind, all right? It was like her hands were keeping me from harming them!"

"Shut up, Tendō," said Cologne.

"But I—"

Cologne yanked her to the floor, cupping her chin with a vice-like, shaking grip.

"Be silent, you fool," she whispered.

Akane struggled, trying to catch her gaze, as if a look of earnestness would convince the matriarch, but Cologne's eyes looked elsewhere. From ropes tied higher up the mountain, the Phoenix people repelled down, landing three at a time, with Masala in the lead.

"My gods," he said. "What happened here? Did they break through?"

"Naught but one," said Cologne, greeting them. "A fortunate straggler, from their perspective."

"One Sorcerer did all this?"

"He had some fight in him." Cologne looked him up and down. "Taking ropes in the rain. You're wingless, Masala. I hope you didn't expect combat."

He pointed to a canteen tied to his belt. "We were ready to fight if needed. Yours was the last platform to report. The others had no incidents after the charges went off."

"A great and wondrous victory it is, then, for the combined forces of Phoenix and Amazon."

Masala sneered. "Mind your tongue, old crone. I hear the mocking in it." He turned to the gathering forces behind him, already a dozen strong. "Send word back to the captain—we'll be bringing wounded."

As two men headed back up the ropes, Cologne covered her mouth, whispering to Akane. "Before you blame your mistakes on another, think carefully about what would result, Tendō. There are more where Masala comes from, many more. We already have one enemy here. Do not sow the seeds of discord to cover for your own folly."

"I meant what I said. I had every intent to stop that Sorcerer before he did more damage. You have to believe me."

"Blind belief is not a luxury I can afford. If you mean to accuse our 'friends' here of working against us, I must have proof."

"What proof can I possibly give?"

Cologne eyed the ice spike, the one that rammed through her great-granddaughter's leg.

"The proof," she said, "is in shampoo."

#

It was a method of the Amazons Akane had known once before, but there are many formulas of the herbal, mind-altering shampoo. Some convince the victim they're a duck or a frog. Others weave a deeper magic, the power to relive the past in a clarity and depth long since depleted.

In the shadows of a stone-walled closet, Cologne sheltered Akane from outside influence and probed her mind to the fullest extent, from the moment they arrived in the Phoenix's hospitality to the thud of the ice spike as it pinned Shampoo to the platform floor.

"You're wrong," said Akane, her voice dull and dreary. "She freed me. I remember. The storm had just started. We returned from fighting Wuya, and I got my things from the prison. She freed me right there. She said so, and I remember…"

One, a story of how she must've been released, another of Keema's whispers blocking her strength. Both couldn't be true, yet the entranced Akane clung to them, a conflicting set of impossible facts.

"And us?" asked Konatsu, when at last Cologne left the shadow. "Are we safe?"

To that, Cologne had no answer. If Akane had truly been controlled again, were the rest of them clean?

They should be. Cologne herself batted away Korma and his aimless warriors. She felt no qualms about laying a hand on them. Nor, to her recollection, had any of the others.

"Why then?" asked Ukyō. "Why take Akane-chan and not the rest of us?"

A valuable question, and the answer to this one was no easier than the first. It was for both those queries that Cologne ordered the rest of the party to stay with Shampoo and Akane, the wounded among them in body and mind. She went to stroll about the mountain, to walk and think.

#

It used to be, on strolls around the village, the most that would disturb the silence were the calls of birds as clumsy children startled them. Even on the coldest day, the skies were clear and blue, and from the ledge above the village, one could scan the horizon and spot the mountains that guarded the edge of the plateau. Over the years, the birds had thinned in number, and the roars of propellers—then jets—dwarfed them. The mountains in the distance faded under the haze of coal and oil.

Or, perhaps, it was the clouding of Cologne's own eyes—of cataracts—that rendered them invisible instead.

It was the passage of time, the one inexorable quantity in human life, and Cologne knew it well. Grandparents, uncles, brothers, sisters—they'd all met their ends with time, and Cologne'd had a hand in burying each of them, if they died in peace, or burning them, if they died in war. Like her family passed on, so did many of the smaller tribes of the Plateau. As the waters of Koko Nor shrank, the fishermen of that blue lake scattered to the winds. The Phoenix closed in on themselves; the Sorcerers, too. After a time, there were only the Amazons left to deal and bargain with the armies of red.

Yet all throughout the decades, when the forces of change troubled Cologne, she embraced her thoughtful strolls, for though they reminded her of how much had gone, they also showed that something new would step into the void that the old had left behind. Where birds might no longer call, children cried and laughed at one another. That's what made a tribe, what made human civilization: the ability of mankind to have children and make them into adults.

To ensure a future for one's children, man will kill, enslave, torture—not all men will do those deeds, but most find it within them. Those who don't fear more for what their children would become if they did. The future is precious to us, after all. It can't be bought or given. It must be seized, whether with a hoe in the ground or a sword from the forge.

And Keema, the great captain of these Phoenix, wouldn't cross an ally, however fleeting that partnership might be, unless she thought it best for the children of her tribe, too.

_Well, Captain Keema? How does holding Tendō's mind benefit your kin? _

On her way up the mountain, Cologne bore witness to the dire state of Saffron's kingdom. Refugees crowded the tunnels, huddling wherever they may. Their rags dripped with seeping rainwater, and they'd be lucky if they smelled only of that. But nay, creeping mold and fungus weren't enough. For the displaced, the homeless, the wounded, the mountain had become their latrine.

The Phoenix weren't prepared for this war. They built their kingdom reliant on a mature Saffron's power to smite any enemy that dared step upon the open plain. And Keema? She'd bought a day, maybe two, but in time, she'd lose. She'd lose this battle and watch the Sorcerers slaughter her kind. Honorable deaths in resisting, to be sure, but unsatisfying. Honor is for warriors on the battlefield, not women and children fighting for their lives. No leader would be content with that fate. Cologne wouldn't be, and neither should Keema. No, Keema must've seen cause to give the Sorcerers delay, to let her plan unfurl and choke them when the time was right. To keep Akane under her control out of spite would be senseless. Vindictive as she might be, Keema was no fool. She'd have kept a hold on Akane only if it served her people, despite the risk that someone, like Cologne, would find out.

Cologne sighed. Betrayal she expected after the battle was won, but _while_ the Sorcerers still stood?

_Children. So aggressive, so impatient. They take the boar by its horn and stab stab stab until it no longer moves. Never content to set a trap and let the creature starve._

But now Cologne and her people were the boar, and Keema had already drawn the blade.

_Perhaps I read this wrong,_ thought Cologne. _It may well be Keema's only quarrel is with Tendō. Over what, I can't fathom. She was the one who showed mercy. Were I in Keema's place, I'd trust her more than any of us._

No, this was no time for uncertainty; that's what made Tendō so vulnerable. When it came time to strike, Cologne put aside her doubts. Her warrior's instinct took over, and she slew all her foes, Phoenix and Sorcerer alike, who might betray the truth of things to Keema. Were it not for Akane's hesitation _then_, they might still be favorite allies of the Phoenix even now. Curse Tendō Akane for her reluctance. It served no purpose.

Then again, was it wrong to have doubts when no course seemed to give victory?

_If Keema already betrays us, there's no course to follow. If she means to kill us, we will fight and die—whether against her forces or the Guard's, it matters not. You're truly stupid, Keema! Could you not put aside your scheme until after the Sorcerers are dead? That way, if we fail, so be it, and if not, I'd feel no qualms about killing you._

Clearly Keema had no intention of being so cooperative.

"Hello? Surma?"

In the flooding throne room, Cologne tapped on the microphone to her radio set, but all that came out was static.

"Surma, do you read?"

Perhaps it was weakness for a teacher to rely on her student when she had no answers herself, but Cologne resolved to hear Surma's counsel all the same. She peered over top the metal casing of the transmitter…

And glimpsed her own reflection. A puddle of water straddled a seam in the casing, but where did it come from? Cologne searched the ceiling, yet no droplets fell from above. Was it an accident of weather? Did a gust of wind break through the curtains and throw rain on the sensitive electronics?

_Hah! I think not. So be it, children of Saffron. You wish to fight two enemies in your castle? _

She batted the microphone away, and it smashed on the stone floor, losing a screw.

_Then fight we will, even if it condemns both of us to death._

#

"We'll never get anywhere against that."

Peering around a corner, Kuonji Ukyō shook her head. The target of her displeasure was an open doorway, flanked on both sides by Phoenix warriors. Within the chamber, rows of giant eggs stood upright, but more intimidating were the frozen, motionless servants who lay within as well.

"Pessimistic already?" said Cologne. "A well-prepared squad of our size could easily dismantle this force with the proper equipment and discipline."

Beside her, Konatsu smacked his lips, dabbing at them with cherry red lipstick. Mousse rubbed vigorously at his glasses, squinting at a crystal-clear lens.

"Then again, perhaps we four aren't so prepared."

With Shampoo laid out and Akane's mind untrusted, Cologne set out with these three—Mousse, Konatsu, and Ukyō—as her only company. To the two girls left behind, Ryōga would be their peacekeeper, tied to a stake if need be, just in case he got in his mind to wander off.

But such loss in capability Cologne sorely felt—to leave half of what she had to sit and heal crippled her. Where Ryōga, Shampoo, and Akane could well hold their own outside the egg chamber while Cologne led the others inside, now she found herself trying to do as much of that with half the effective strength. It was an unappetizing prospect, and there was no feeding this last meal to the dogs. It had to be swallowed, one gulp at a time.

And all talk of disadvantages aside, Cologne had to admit it: Keema had provided well for defense of the egg room. Who knew what traps might lie within or whether she'd sacrifice her minions to protect the eggs that were so sacrosanct to her. These extraordinary measures surely confirmed Keema's duplicity, but that certainty was of little comfort to Cologne. Better to be wrong and victorious than right and dead. If they couldn't take the eggs unnoticed or maim and kill every defender, Keema would surely hear them raise an alarm.

"Wait, wait, what the hell is that?"

A burst of Kansai dialect Japanese roused Cologne from her reverie. "Need you comment on everything that passes before your eyes?" she asked Ukyō.

"Trust me, you want to see this." Ukyō pointed around the corner. "Have a look."

Grumbling, Cologne inched toward the bend, leaning on her walking stick. At the entrance to the egg room, a young girl—tall, but thin, with brown spots on her folded wings—conversed with the two guards. A tray of cups she held flat and horizontal…

And each cup carried a single egg.

"It makes sense," said Mousse, peering over Cologne. "The Phoenix store the eggs here, but they have to come from somewhere else. Some kind of spell maybe? A ritual?"

"Perhaps something else entirely."

The girl smiled for the guards and made her way inside. When she came out again, she tucked the empty tray under her arm.

"They may store the eggs here," said Cologne, "but the most vulnerable point, the place we can best steal an egg for ourselves and free Tendō, may be elsewhere."

The courier girl strolled down the dark tunnels alone.

"Come!" Cologne turned away, marching down the cross-path with haste. "This way!"

"Where are we going?" asked Konatsu.

"This should lead around to the girl if she doesn't deviate from the straight path. If she does, we wait for the next delivery, but I think no one here would prefer to wait, yes?"

Ukyō frowned. "And what exactly do we do when we find her?"

"What do you think?" Cologne reached into her bag, eyed a bottle of shampoo, and shook. The stuff inside made no sound; the bottle was light and empty. "All gone," she mused. "Pity. We'll have to do as the ancestors did."

"And what's that?"

They rounded a bend. The girl with the wooden tray stretched her wings briefly but kept walking.

"Kuonji, Mousse, you see the doorway beyond her? Secure it. Whatever space lies beyond, we'll need room to…converse with this one."

"Wait," said Ukyō. "What are you going to—"

Cologne cocked her walking stick back like a batter at the Polo Grounds. She took a step, and the hunk of wood spun like a boomerang.

THWACK!

The girl tumbled; her tray plunked on the ground, but stunned, wounded prey wouldn't do for Cologne. She leapt off the tunnel walls, bouncing like a pinball, and snatched up her loose club.

WHAM! A single blow to the head, and the girl napped in the dirt.

"Help me!" hissed Cologne. "Take the tray, too. Drag her there if we must."

Konatsu and Cologne each took an arm, lugging the dazed Phoenix girl along the floor. As they approached the doorway beyond, a number of Phoenix people—women who carried babies in naught but blankets or the folds of their shirts, children whose grimy, filthy wings spread a foul sent and dust in the air—scattered through the exit, dispersing in the hall as a collective file.

"What was that?" Cologne demanded. "What were they doing? What did you tell them?"

"Refugees," said Mousse. "Stranded victims. We said the Sorcerers were coming, that they needed to get somewhere safe."

"You fool! Do you want them to alert Keema?"

"Nothing else would make them budge. What should I have done, held a knife to their throats?"

Cologne scowled, and together, she and Konatsu dragged the wounded bird into an abandoned cliffside home. But for the rags and pots of the stranded tribesmen, the floors were bare. The windows, though boarded, leaked rainwater and chilling, drafty wind.

With their prisoner laid out on the floor, Cologne slapped her across the cheek."Wake up, my dear. I have business with you."

She moaned. Her eyes fluttered, struggling to focus.

THWACK! Cologne clubbed her across the forehead.

"What are you doing?" asked Ukyō. "You're going to kill her before you get anything useful."

"Shut up!"

The Phoenix girl grabbed at her bleeding forehead, curling into a ball.

"What is your name, child?" asked Cologne.

"Besan."

"Besan, is it? A beautiful name. One I would've liked to give my granddaughter, if her mother hadn't set her mind on another. You resemble her, you know. Tall, sleek."

"I do?"

THWACK! The stick crunched against her ribcage.

"Wrong! Her hair was long and flowing and beautiful! So she was not—" THWACK! "Like you—" THWACK! "At all!" THWACK!

Ukyō planted her spatula, covered her face, and looked to an empty corner.

"My granddaughter needs to know about those eggs of yours," said Cologne. "The Sorcerers have her; they've held her for all these twenty years. Would you like it if you were taken from your family?"

"No!"

"Would you like it if they were free to do whatever they wished with you?" Cologne's finger ran down the girl's cheek. "To make you endure their experiments of magic? To make you lie with them, to bear their children?"

"No no no!"

"Then you understand, don't you, why I'm so desperate to find her? Why I _must_ find her?"

Through teary eyes, the girl Besan lashed at Cologne. She clawed at the crone's fingers; she jabbed with her knees.

"Impudent!" SLAP! A backhand twisted Besan's neck. She moved not but to tremble and weep.

"Isn't that enough?" said Mousse. "Let's get what we want from her and leave. Those people are surely running to Keema, telling her we're here."

"If you're so concerned, watch the door."

"But—"

"Watch the door, young Mousse, or I'll have the Council forbid you from seeing Shampoo ever again. As much as you've interfered in her tribal duty, that would be the least of your punishments should I decide to exercise privilege. Watch the door!"

With a gulp and a nod, Mousse made to the exit, glancing down both ends of the tunnel.

"Well?" Cologne asked her captive. "The eggs—where do you get them?"

"I really shouldn't say—"

THWACK!

"From the nest!" She clutched her head, covering her face with both arms. "A few are laid every day; today was good. We usually only get five or six."

"And where is this nest?"

"In the aviary. Most of the caretakers fly, but there's a stairwell to it down the hall. I was going that way."

"Tell me about this aviary. Tell me about its defenses."

"Hurry it up," said Mousse, putting his back to the doorway. "I hear what sounds like a lot of trouble."

"It's usually the safest place on the mountain after Lord Saffron's chambers," said Besan. "But lately, since the Sorcerers attacked, Captain Keema moved all the guards away."

"Why?"

"She wouldn't say—"

THWACK! "Tell me why!"

"I—I asked her! I did! She said they weren't needed there anymore. She said the eggs would still be safe!"

Cologne narrowed her eyes. She leaned in, nose-to-nose with the battered girl.

"How could she say that," asked the Amazon matriarch, "if her people aren't the ones guarding the nests?"

"I think we need to go!" said Mousse. "Right now!"

Cologne overturned her bag, sorting through bottles of conditioner and shampoo. "Then go we shall," she said. "In a moment."

"I thought you weren't going to scramble her head!" said Ukyō.

"To extract information, no. I used all of that on Tendō, but there are many formulas of shampoo." She looked to her victim. "Now, Besan, where did you say the nests were in this aviary?"

"The very top; the highest point in the chamber."

"Good, good." She squeezed a dab into her palm and hovered over the prone girl. "Don't worry, child. When I'm done, you won't remember how you got these bruises, these broken bones, and while the pain may yet linger, I promise you…"

She rubbed shampoo into the tufts of short, light hair.

"Forgetting is for the best."

#

"You know, I understand the sense of urgency…"

On a spiral staircase, Ukyō doubled over, panting.

"But just what do you think we'll find in this aviary?"

"I think, if I were Keema, I wouldn't dare leave the source of my most potent weapon unguarded."

"What are we going to do, fight the Phoenix for their eggs? I thought the idea was to be discreet!"

"You heard the girl. There are no Phoenix guarding these eggs. No, I expect we'll find something else." She prodded Ukyō with the walking stick. "Come on!"

Nodding, Ukyō stood upright and dashed on with the group. The stairwell torches gave way to warm, white light.

Konatsu wandered at the top of the stair, shading his eyes, scanning the chamber. "What kind of place is this?"

The party emerged in a large, cavernous space—a hollow as tall as the Tōkyō Tower and spanning the whole width of the mountain. Massive pillars, as thick as skyscrapers in their own right, held the weight of the peak above them, and from the center support, water seeped out, flowing into a sparkling pond.

It was a water hole for the birds. Cranes dunked their long, nimble necks to sip and drink. Ducks floated on the surface, as if sitting at their home nests. Beyond these, many strange and obscure avian species partook of the water hole—birds with rainbow colors and shimmering wings.

Ka-PAM! A blast of wind pounded the rock.

"No time to admire the sights!" said Cologne, pouncing away. "Find the birds! Get to the top!"

Clinging to the sheer face of a rocky wall, the four searched for handholds on an impeccably flat surface.

"I don't understand," said Konatsu, digging his shuriken into stone. "What just attacked us? What just happened?"

"What do you think?" Dragging himself up by chains, Mousse adjusted his glasses and glanced over his shoulder. "We've been on the wrong end of their magic too much now."

They hovered to match the climbers' ascent. Cloth of solid black they wore. In one hand, each carried a martial, fighting staff, and with the other, the flows of ki bent to the caster's will.

Sorcerers, half a dozen of them, flew where Cologne and her comrades clawed at rock instead.

"Mousse, you have a spark or flame in those endless sleeves of yours?" asked Cologne.

"Yes!"

Cologne fished her pocket and came out with a handful of dust. "On my count! Three! Two! One!"

From her open fist, the powder flew. Mousse opened his sleeve, and a torrent of flame sprayed into the air. The powder ignited! POP-POP-POP-POP-POP!

"You have a _flamethrower_?" said Ukyō.

"I didn't think a cigarette lighter would be enough!"

The Sorcerers shrank away from the fireworks, but the reprieve was temporary at best. The flashy explosions dissipated, and the Sorcerers floated through the smoke undeterred.

Clinging to the rock face on the strength of her fingernails, Cologne looked down on the Sorcerers and the three companions who trailed her.

_Children,_ she thought. _They think themselves nimble and strong, yet always they prove themselves so slow. The four of us will never make it up and down this wall before the Sorcerers tear us apart._ She glanced below. "Head back down!" she yelled. "We only need what we came for; this isn't a battle we need to win, just to survive! Go!"

"And when they come after you?" asked Ukyō.

_Let them come._

Up the sheer wall, she bashed out handholds and pulled herself to the top, under the roof of the aviary itself.

And on that top ledge, the majestic creatures of orange and gold sat on their nests. Life fire softened to flesh and feathers, the birds shimmered and glowed—great, long-necked beasts with sharp, cutting beaks. The very personifications of the phoenix in all but flames guarded the most treasured of eggs.

"That's far enough," said a voice. "Don't you think?"

There, among the nests, the captain of the Phoenix people pet one of her prized birds on the head.

"I assure you this is all a misunderstanding."

"Like I believe that!" Cologne's fist slammed into the rocks!

CRUNCH-WHAM!

A wave of jagged rock slashed at Keema! The birds took flight, abandoning their nests, but the Phoenix captain stood her ground, bearing cuts on her arms and side to hold fast.

"You wish to cross the Amazons?" said Cologne, snatching an egg from an open nest. "Then face the wrath of a hundred years' coming!"

The egg flew!

POP! Keema flapped her wings, and the cutting wave of pressure shattered the shell.

"As I said, you misunderstand!" Keema opened her hands, spreading her arms and wings, inviting attack. "You think I have crossed you?"

"The presence of Sorcerers here confirms it! You conspire against me and my kin; no Sorcerers escaped that trap of yours. They can only be here because you invited them!"

"Oh?"

Behind Keema, the band of Sorcerers and Phoenix alike rose. They carried Mousse, Konatsu, and Ukyō. They dropped them rudely on the ledge.

"Look upon these Sorcerers, Cologne. Is there not one you know already?"

Cologne scanned their faces, and indeed, there was one who struck her. A face she'd only seen in shadow, in darkness, but she knew the look in his eyes. It was a dull, clouded look—the gaze of someone compelled to comply, to answer any question, for when Cologne met that Sorcerer, that's what he did. She met him in the bowels of the mountain, the Phoenix's brig below. She questioned him about her granddaughter, the one he didn't know.

"I made these Sorcerers no invitation," said Keema. "I captured them all, with these eggs you've sought. I command them, and they obey. These men I control will corrupt the Sorcerers' ranks from within. That is how we'll purge this invasion."

She grinned.

"That is how we ensure Lord Saffron's rebirth."

* * *

**Next:** With his Sorcerers beaten and bloodied from Phoenix resistance, Kohl lays out a bold plan—an invasion from above to take the mountain with insurmountable force—but neither he nor Ranma, who comes with Amazon aid, knows what Keema has in store for them. **Four great forces spiral toward collision in "The Battle of Phoenix Mountain" Part V - "Converging Points of Compass Rose" - Coming January 28, 2010.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	38. Battle V: Points of Compass Rose

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** With the Phoenix in control of a number of Sorcerers, the countdown to the next Guard offensive is critical: can Keema's spies dismantle the Sorcerers for good, or will they break through the line and forge their way to Saffron?

* * *

**Converging Points of Compass Rose**

_Chapter Six, Act Five_

Among the sparse trees and rough terrain of the Tibetan Plateau, the Sorcerer Guard buried their dead. The tents in tatters they cut and reused, but without doubt, their numbers were thinner than before. Yet more troublesome than the damage or the wounded, the dead, were the whispers that passed between the survivors' lips and ears.

"She flew like we do," said one of them. "She wields ice like we do. How long do you think it'll be before she can light the forest in flames? Before she closes her eyes and knows where we stand?"

"She is flesh and bone and blood," said a voice, "and she can be killed like any outsider. She may imitate our magic, but that doesn't make her unique or special. Anyone can attune themselves to the flows of ki. You know that. Don't forget."

The pair of gossiping Sorcerers bowed and nodded in respect. "Yes, captain!"

"Resume your duties," said Kohl, brushing a strand of long, reddish-brown hair from his feminine face. "And speak no more of this."

The men pounded their staves on the rock in agreement, yet the sound of metal staff tips on stone inspired Kohl with no confidence. The disquiet in their souls sapped their strength. He knew this, for he felt that concern as well.

Saotome Ranma, the outsider, the one who turned their magic against them. What he said was true—anyone _can_ learn the ki magic, but to fly and fight as she did, with the grace of the egret, the power of the diving hawk? Kohl had presided over many a lesson in flight for his men. They fluttered like chicks and splashed in the river. Even Kohl himself had endured a dunking in his time, and it took weeks of practice and meditation to make the journey from the tower waterfall to the outskirts of the Lady's domain.

No one, particularly an outsider, could make such a controlled flight after a few days' learning.

"She does seem exceptional somehow," said Tilaka, surveying the damage. "Doesn't she?"

Ranma could be exceptional all she liked—_after_ Saffron was theirs, _after_ the Sieve had been replaced. But these people, these Phoenix, Riverfolk, strangers from faraway lands—they resisted. They fought back. They never had the sense to turn and run away. Even as they beat a retreat across the open Plateau, their arrows rained from above. They defended every inch of soil they could. They buried his men under tons of rock, and why? Did they think they would win? Were they such fools to believe that?

No, they had no comprehension of the power they faced. If Kohl hadn't needed Saffron alive, he and his people would've leveled this mountain long ago and let all the Phoenix people within dissolve and melt like the putty they were.

Yet still they fought, and to destroy them so thoroughly, to risk Saffron's life, was unacceptable. That would be a waste and accomplish nothing.

"I could help," said Tilaka. "Let me feel their minds, and I'll put fear there. I'll put panic and madness into their souls. I can make them cut their own wings and jump to their deaths. Then there'll be no one to oppose us."

Yes, indeed, Kohl should use the power of the Sieve, of the eyes that peer into all men's souls. That power could sow into their hearts that insidious seed—a seed to grow and strangle them from within.

And let Tilaka be the one to plant it, to see into the darkness of the human heart once more, as she'd done for so long, and risk losing herself to the void once again.

Kohl looked to the top of the mountain, where swirling winds slowed to a stable eye. _No, Tilaka. I won't have you drink from that poisonous cup again. Never again, if I can help it._ His gaze sharpened.

"Kohl?"

"Spread the word," said the Captain of the Guard. "We will attack. I know exactly how."

"Don't be hasty. I sense something in our brothers and sisters. Something I've never felt before."

"It is only fear, a fear our boldness will erase. Understand that. Believe it yourself, so they'll believe it, too."

Tilaka bowed her head. "Then I will rally the men."

Thus news of Kohl's plan filtered through the remains of the camp, yet the captain and advisor himself remained wary—of Tilaka, who contemplated the use of her great power when it was he who should shelter her; of Ranma, whose control of magic might well have rivaled his own…

But most of all, Kohl was wary of whispers, for even as the men gathered to hear of his attack plans, he heard their rumblings in low and guarded voices.

#

"Over the centuries, my people have used the eggs to defend themselves. We captured our enemies to make them spies and informants to Lord Saffron's cause. We did the same with Shampoo, for much the same reasons."

"Shampoo still owe you much pain for that," said a voice.

With an amused glare, Keema crossed her legs, adjusting her position on the impromptu throne. The seven of the Nerima party stood before the Phoenix captain in her makeshift war room, replete with the chair from the deluged court above. At Keema's word, the court officers had filed out. Aside from the captain herself, only Masala and Korma—the latter wearing bandages over his eyes—remained.

"This time," Keema went on, "we had a Sorcerer under our control, one who said his people knew not of our eggs or their power. After our first engagements went so poorly, I conceived the plan—a plan that could dismantle the enemy force from within and save hundreds of lives."

"I fail to see what that has to do with Tendō," said Cologne. "Or us."

"Indeed. Well, if you must know…" Keema grinned. "Tendō was my experiment."

" 'Experiment?' " echoed Akane. "For what?"

"The problem with a spy is that he can be caught and interrogated," said Keema. "He may divulge something of value to the other side. But an agent who knows not the betrayal he commits is flawless, undetectable—or, I should say, if he is found out, he himself will be as baffled as an innocent man. One Sorcerer under my control wasn't enough. Nor was a dozen. We aimed to take as many minds as we could until their actions could no longer remain hidden. Then, and only then, would they execute my supreme order and strike down their former comrades."

"And for this you needed Akane-san?" said Ryōga. "Why?"

"To see if someone could pass for normal among others who weren't under my control." Keema looked to Akane. "And she did, for a time. It seems Tendō is somewhat resistant to the egg's effects. Perhaps because she knew of it and could suspect she was conditioned; alas, who can say. Regardless, she deceived you all for quite some time. She's been under my control, in one way or another, since the Sorcerers' initial attack, and until yesterday, you never suspected, did you?"

"Tendō is far from a Sorcerer," said Cologne. "They can sense things in their comrades. They'll know."

Keema laughed. "Ah, but they don't. As we speak, they plan another incursion into this mountain, an attack from above, and we will be waiting for them. Our agents in their force will turn on them the moment they land at the summit, and we will destroy them in the counterattack."

Cologne eyes narrowed. "So it is, then. It seems we'll have Sorcerers to fight after all."

"I will join you all at the summit?"

"Hah! Not if you think we'd forget something."

Keema raised an eyebrow.

"Your experiment is over, whatever its purposes. Release Tendō now, or our cooperation is as fleeting as a leaf on the wind."

"Of course. With naught but a word, her mind is free and her own."

"A word will not suffice. Produce an egg. I have a mirror handy."

"I anticipated as much. So be it." She motioned to Masala. "Please, give our guests what they desire. It seems they'll be satisfied with nothing less."

Masala descended the steps, offering an egg in his open hands. Cologne snatched it from him, her grip harsh and unwavering, and looked to Akane.

"Are you ready?"

Akane raised a hand to rebuff her. "Not yet. I have a question…" Her gaze fixed on the throne. "For Keema."

"I am at your disposal."

She stepped forward, eyes locked on the Phoenix captain as she approached the base of the platform.

"Why me?" she asked. "Why did I have to be the one for your experiment? Why me and no one else?"

With her sickening grin, Keema rose from her seat, meeting Akane on the bottom step.

"Because you asked me to."

"I did not!"

"You begged me to. It was your wish to do something useful when your own strength and spirit weren't enough. It's true I wanted a test subject, and you threw yourself into my lap. All this was your idea."

_My idea? _

"So take solace, Tendō Akane—with your help, the Sorcerers will fall, and your beloved can be saved. That's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Akane stared, open-mouthed, her expression wavering.

"Enough talk," said Cologne. "Are you ready?"

A weak nod.

"So be it." A light throw, and the egg hurtled toward her. It broke open, catching her in its binding threads. Torches and stone disappeared. There was only darkness, only black.

_So when I couldn't do enough with my body, I gave up my mind, my soul, for Ranma? _

More than one had she offered her life for him—for his safety, for his strength, yet those sacrifices never troubled her. They were noble. They were the right thing to do at the time. Indeed, given the choice to endure slavery a bit longer, with the promise of the Sorcerers' defeat, maybe she'd do it again.

_But if it makes so much sense, why am I surprised? _

The darkness swirled around her. Her mind went clear and blank. A single crack penetrated the lightless interior of the egg. The light hit Akane, triggering a simple instinct.

'_Up.'_

She rose, and the shell of the egg broke away. The lights of this place she knew, she recognized: burning torches hung on the walls. Firelight flickered on stone floor.

"The mirror!" A voice spoke to her, but whoever it was, he shielded himself and her with his hands. "Akane-san, look at the mirror!"

_Mirror? Where's—_

A flickering glare caught her eye. She turned her head, and a girl's reflection looked back at her: skin creamy, even, and youthful. Dark bangs curled over her eyes—eyes of a deep and natural brown.

'_Someone who says you're not cute is a liar,'_ she imagined someone saying to her. _'Me included.'_

Akane smiled softly to herself, and her eyes searched the room for her companions. "I'm free now?"

"You sound uncertain," said Cologne.

She touched a hand to her cheek and brushed her hair out of her eyes. "To tell the truth, I don't feel very different."

"All it takes is a kernel of insight into yourself to see if your master is yourself or someone else," said Keema. "Perhaps you recall what I spoke of now?"

Akane blinked. A tumult of images bubbled to the surface of her thoughts. "You're right. I remember now. You were going to free me, Keema, but I asked you if there were anything else I could do, even if it meant being a slave for a little longer." She looked to the ceiling. "We were upstairs, outside, where this throne should be. You said—"

"That you'd done enough, in sparing my man, in proving through interrogation that your motives were pure." Keema pressed her lips together. "Ranma may have set the Sorcerers against us, but I, at least, can appreciate how you all are here now to fight the Sorcerers."

"My, have we had some change of heart?" said Cologne.

Keema's glare was sharp and immediate. "Not to you. I've probed your mind, Cologne—I know what fuels your desire to fight. That battle isn't ours, and all I will do is wish you well when the Sorcerers are gone from this mountain, as I expect you and your people to be when the fight is done." She cleared her throat. "Be all that as it may, I like to think I can appreciate how different motives have brought all of you together to fight with us, yes? And if we grow weary of each other, then no better way I can think of to remedy that than to destroy the Sorcerers when they come to the summit."

"I suppose," muttered Cologne, "we can all appreciate that goal."

"Good. Are we satisfied, then?"

"For the moment." Cologne waved to her comrades, signalling them to follow. "Come; if the Sorcerers mean to attack, we should make ourselves ready."

"Ah, Tendō?"

As the group filed out, Keema caught Akane at the edge of the doorway. This time, Korma was the one to come bearing gifts, presenting her a covered basket. "Let us call this a reward," said Keema. "For your sacrifice. I do not know I'd have had the strength to do it." On seeing the group's curious gazes, she elaborated. "It's food," she explained. "A special treat to partake of before decisive battle. I hope you'll all enjoy it for supper tonight."

"Oh." Akane gripped the handle with a puzzled look. "Thank you."

The doors to the war room ground against their hinges and shut.

"Shampoo no like 'special treats.' " The young Amazon limped on her bad leg and gave a huff. "That Keema much much creepy when acting kind."

"I do admit," said Akane, unfolding the cloth to that covered the basket. "She does seem a bit full of surprises to—"

She peeled back the last piece of cloth and stared.

At a set of six pristine bird eggs.

"Well, Akane-chan?"

She covered up quickly. "Huh?"

"What's in the basket?" asked Ukyō, her sights fixed ahead. "Have you looked yet?"

Akane walked on beside her, letting the basket drop to her side.

"No," said Akane. "Not yet."

#

"Still no word from the old bat, huh?"

"That's an unusual choice of words for a former Elder of the tribe."

"Call it a habit."

In cramped quarters, Elder Surma and Ranma huddled by the light of a torch. They hunched beneath a low ceiling and covered their ears—

TA-PAM!

The earth shook; pebbles sprayed their feet. Up ahead, a team of diggers blasted at rock with just the points of their index fingers, and as they surged forward, a line of warriors followed, ferrying larger pieces of rubble back to the surface.

"I could get you some hot water," said Surma. "It would be no trouble."

"For what? To last until we go back into the elements and face the downpour? No thanks. I may not like being a girl, but I like being wet even less. I'll manage."

"Teacher said you were like this."

"Did she now."

"_Stubborn_ was the word she used."

"I'll give her that."

"_Irascible_, even."

"Is that right." He smirked. "I might have to show that old bat what _irascible_ really means the next time I see her." He straightened his back—

Thud. And bonked his head on the tunnel ceiling.

"Well," he said, rubbing the bump, "when this is all over anyway. Still no word from her?"

"It's possible they ran out of fuel for the generator. That would be the simple explanation."

_Trust me,_ Ranma thought to himself. _Nothing's simple with these guys._

In the hours since Ranma attacked the Sorcerer camp, the Guard had returned to shore up their numbers. Surma, wary of waging a full-on assault in the open, opted for the safer route instead: to carve a way into the mountain from below, avoiding the heavy rain and whipping winds. That was fine for Ranma—he still had a stinging cut on his arm that he could stand to let heal for a while—but night gave way to day again with the tunnel as yet incomplete. He could hardly accuse Surma of taking the slow way about things, of course, for she cared as much about making good time as he did, but all the same, the waiting gnawed at him.

_I'd think it'd gnaw at anybody. You got people coming to save you, and now they're the ones in a jam, surrounded on all sides, with no escape. Anyone who gives less than his best for that is a bastard, and that's all there is to it._

"Elder!" said a voice. "We've broken through!"

"Very good! Warriors, draw your weapons! We go into unknown territory."

With a raucous shout, the Amazons unsheathed swords and pulled arrows from their quivers.

"Best to be cautious, huh?" said Ranma.

"You did say the Phoenix betrayed you to the Sorcerers. It seems prudent to expect something less than a warm welcome."

Ranma's expression soured. "Yeah, that's true."

Into the breach the Amazon warriors entered, pulling one another through the hole in the tunnel ceiling, but what they found at the base of the mountain was neither Keema's minions to accost them nor Sorcerers to do battle with. Where flooding waters overflowed the grand stair, Surma's Amazons found darkness, the gushing rain…

And the soaked, grimy bodies of the barely-living among the corpses of the dead.

"Stay your arms!" said Surma, showing her open hands to the refugees. "The Tribe of Women Heroes comes to your aid! We mean you no harm!"

Slowly, the stranded Phoenix people crept from the shadows. Some were wingless, drenched from head to toe. Others bore fingernails blackened from mud and rock—they'd dug with their bare hands, so they said, to get through the collapse that trapped them below, but it proved of no use. They drank from rainwater, but no doubt it made some of them sick. They pulled their wounded from the shattered tunnels, but where some still hobbled on sprained ankles or broken legs, others had already succumbed—to the cold, to hunger, to infection and death.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." Ranma crouched before a mother and daughter, offering a piece of cracker from his pocket. "Come on, take it. It's…" He made a face. "It's not that bad. Trust me."

The little girl, a toddler at best, broke off a piece for herself and nibbled on a corner. Ranma offered the rest to the mother, who nodded in gratitude—a gesture that, though words failed them, both could understand.

"We don't have a lot," said Ranma, more to himself than either of them. "But more will come; I promise. There's a whole village out there that can help. They'll bring a caravan or something. Akane'll come—" He caught himself, making a face. "Well, somebody will."

Somebody would, but when? The math was simple on that question: days, at least. Days to reach the Amazon village again, days for relief to be gathered and make the return trip. That piece of cracker the Amazons gave to him, but how much more did they have left?

Not enough. Of that much, he was certain. Not enough to feed everyone they came across, to keep alive all these victims of the Sorcerers' aggression…

And his own need to survive.

_No, no, no. This ain't my fault. Those Sorcerers—they're the ones doing this. They already knew about Saffron. None of this has to do with me. Not one bit. Every step of the way I tried to sabotage them. Everything they thought they knew about the Phoenix was wrong. I did my part to make them fail._

He looked to the base of the staircase, where sheets of rain lapped at the bottom step.

_What else could I do, Akane? _

A small party secured the tunnel exit, leaving Ranma and Surma to climb the grand stair. Thousands of steps passed under their feet. They delved into the heart of humanity, of countless souls left abandoned by Keema, for the sake of the rest above the blast line—of those whom tons of rock sheltered and kept safe. These were the rocks, the boulders, that stymied the Sorcerers.

"Look alive!"

TA-PAM!

And as fingertips shattered stone, it seemed that Keema's barrier had thwarted the Amazons, too. A half-dozen men, under Surma's watchful eye, blasted the cave-in with the Breaking Point technique, but where rock broke and cracked, more fell into place. The brave Amazons only succeeded in sending pebbles down the stair and coating themselves in a thin layer of gravel, of dust.

"Come on, then," said Surma, pulling her men back. "We'll have no luck here."

"Why not?" Ranma demanded. "Why can't you keep trying?"

"The force doesn't leap across air, child. The Breaking Point requires rock as solid as possible, the denser the better. That is why it fails to harm flesh. Compared to a boulder, you and I are little more than bags of meat and water." Surma shook her head, pensive. "Perhaps another route will give us more luck, but we may have to scale the mountain on the outside and risk being blown away like feathers from an eagle's wing."

"I wouldn't count on it. You didn't try getting here on foot. It felt like the wind would tear my face off."

"Believe me, I share your concern, but even when I spoke to Cologne last, it sounded as if the siege progressed far more poorly than either of us could've foreseen. I'm not shy to admit it: I'm fearful, child. Fearful for my teacher, for the two of my countrymen who went with her, and for the four of yours who did the same."

Fear Ranma understood. On this mountain, in the rain and wind, was the last place anyone should feel safe, but for Ukyō's sake, for Ryōga, for Konatsu…

"Wait, _four_?" said Ranma. "So my pop went along after all?"

"The panda man?" Surma laughed. "No, he seemed quite content scouring the woods of our village for bamboo. Why?" She frowned. "Who did you think stayed behind?"

A chill ran down the back of his neck. His gaze turned unfocused and distant.

"No one," he said. "Can't imagine why I thought that."

He wandered through the dark to an outcropping, a little ledge on the face of the mountain exposed to wind and rain. Perhaps, in different times, the Phoenix used these holes in the wall to fly up and down the mountain, but Ranma didn't care. The stone was wet and cold; he bathed in the deluge, and the oppressive rain weighed on him, vicious and unrelenting.

_You stupid bitch._

He wiped his eyes and turned his head down, pressing his palms to his forehead.

_This was nothing you had to get involved in. I told you that; you heard me, but you didn't listen! You think you'll make all the difference—is that it? You're not superhuman! _

He fingered the bandage below his left shoulder.

_They did this to me; what do you think they'll do to you? You didn't even consider that, did you._

He shut his eyes, shaking his head.

_You just knew you had to come…because I was here._

The runoff surged over the step, soaking through his shoes.

_And the only reason I'm here…_

He stepped further, into the wind. The water dripped over his face, seeped through his shirt. The fabric clung to his body—it made folds around his ankles; it went tight about his hips.

It hugged his immaculate breasts.

…_is this._

He unbuttoned his shirt at the collar, revealing to the elements the soft, sensual flesh. He felt for the nipple and cupped his hand around breast to hold its weight.

And he squeezed.

His hands, which could crush steel in their grip, took that piece of flesh, that _thing_ which shouldn't belong to him, and squeezed. He squeezed it to hurt. He squeezed so his fingerprints would be etched in the bruises he left behind. He squeezed and squeezed until the rushing downpour itself robbed him of firm grip, and the lump of fatty tissue squirted loose.

He bit down on his lip; he shut his eyes tightly. He buttoned his collar and clenched his fists, his breathing hard and deep and steady.

Even for her, he couldn't tear off that piece of himself.

_But guy or girl, I can still save you._

He stepped to the precipice. What interested him wasn't out there, back the way he came, but up the mountain, to a house embedded in the sheer face, and like a gymnast on the balance beam, he spread his arms and leapt!

THUNK! He stuck a landing on the apex, but his sights were set ever higher. Maybe he couldn't fly freely against this sorcerous wind, but a touch of magic steadied him, buffered him, against its unpredictable tugs. From roofs to ledges and back again, Ranma jumped and jumped up the mountain, for not even this typhoon would deter him or erode his resolve.

_Wherever you are, I'll always save you._

#

"You're certain?"

Under the glow of a skylight, the Phoenix captain crouched to hear her aide's remarks. Though light was muted in the stormy murk, something was visible through the ceiling window and sheets of rain:

The rim of the peak, where the Phoenix's cursed spring welled to its utmost height.

"You're absolutely certain?" said Keema.

Mousse tapped his foot. "Hello? Captain Keema? I thought we were moving to the summit, not standing around sounding like a fool."

Through the last winding tunnels, the Phoenix forces marched on the peak, where, if their Sorcerer informants should be believed, the Guard would mount their offensive.

Yet for some precious minutes, Keema and her aides dallied in this house near the summit, spurring the Nerima party to wait as well.

"Forgive me," said Keema, sending her aide away. "Cologne, may I have a moment?"

The Amazon matriarch sighed. "What is it now?"

Keema walked her to a corner of the room, out of earshot from the others. "I'm told our friend Saotome Ranma has arrived after all. Some scouts have spotted him scaling the mountain from the base."

"Indeed? So Son-in-law isn't completely tardy. The more of us the better."

"You said he'd learned some Sorcerer techniques? I should think he'd be useful here, if we can bring him up in time."

"Have your men send word he should make haste."

"I was thinking he could stand an escort."

"Oh? For what?"

"Against any unexpected mishap. Two or three men spared from here will make little difference, but more Sorcerer magic to wield against them could become a decisive edge."

Cologne frowned. "If you say so…"

"I do. Perhaps you could take one or two of your best and meet him in person?"

"Indeed, just what I want to do: traipse about this mountain as a glorified bodyguard." She called over her shoulder. "Mousse!"

"Yes, Old Mushroom?"

THWACK!

"Show some discipline with your tongue," said Cologne, "and be silent as you follow me. Shampoo! You too."

"Where we go?"

"Down the mountain."

"But…Shampoo leg too weak to do more walking."

THWACK!

"For that, I expect you to run the first third of the way down. You were fine this morning and fine on the way up; with your mother's blood in you, two full days should be plenty to recover. Come!"

Shampoo quickened her step, following Cologne's lead.

"You thought I was insincere? Run! You too, Mousse!"

They dashed from the room, with Cologne cackling as she followed them out.

"Well," said Keema, "shall we continue up?"

"What was that about?" asked Akane.

"Just a minor issue to see to below. Nothing to worry over."

She looked to the skylight and the rim of the mountain beyond.

"What comes from above is our only concern now."

#

What came from above were dozens of Sorcerers, soaring over the clouds—clouds that obscured only the mountain and not the trees or the plains around. It was a bizarre juxtaposition of chaotic destruction and serene beauty, for though the Plateau was harsh and inhospitable, it was also the picture of Earth's majesty and beauty, from the imposing mountains to winding rivers. Kohl took in this landscape, for it was largely foreign to him. When his mission was done, odds were he'd never glimpse it again.

"Something to remember, isn't it."

Like a plane whose wings suddenly stalled, Kohl's body lurched in the sky. "Tilaka?"

The Sieve soared beside the captain, rolling calmly in the breeze. "I've missed flying. It always helped me relax."

"Get back to the camp! A fall from this height would kill you!"

Tilaka narrowed her eyes. "I may have been Sieve for years, but I still remember how to fly." She brought forth a small panel of ice from her hand. "And to defend myself."

"We go into battle now; the Sieve _cannot_ be here!"

"Unless she chooses to be." Tilaka sped out and circled to face him. "Please. You watched over me for all those years. Let me return the favor and watch over you and your men, this one time."

"It means so much to you?"

"It does."

Kohl sighed and snatched Tilaka by the wrist. "You stay with me, behind cover, and if there is something _small_ you can do for a tactical advantage, you may _carefully_—"

"I'll be cautious," said Tilaka. "I promise."

Kohl loosened his grip, letting Tilaka's hand slip free. "All right!" he called to his men. "Open the eye!"

In the center of the maelstrom, the swirling storm below, a hole formed. For the first time in days, the light of the sun reached Mount Phoenix unobstructed, and the waters of the cursed spring shimmered in clear skies.

Into this still column of air the Sorcerers descended. The top of the mountain was a narrow but flat ring, dominated by the waters of the spring. Though there was precious little room to stand on, the Sorcerers floated easily to the high perch.

"Find the path to the interior!" said Kohl. "We should overwhelm them before they can mount a defense!"

Tilaka smiled. "All goes according to the captain's plan?"

So it seemed, didn't it, yet Kohl's eyes were sharp and alive. As soon as the rain stopped, he expected some resistance to meet them. The Phoenix should fly out and engage the Sorcerers, use their wings that have been folded for so long, yet none of the bird-men soared above. Kohl closed his eyes, listening, feeling the flows. Yes, what he didn't see, the eddies of ki told him plainly. There was energy here; there was presence.

"Ach!"

There was, not four paces in front of him, a Sorcerer with a spike of ice in his back, for another Sorcerer had driven it through his chest.

#

"Yikes!"

Ranma clung to the rooftop of an abandoned home as a ten-ton boulder tumbled past.

"Geez, where did that come from?"

But the view above him was inscrutable; rain cut at his eyes, blinding him. He set his sights lower—from one house or staircase or even simple ledge to the next.

_Come on, don't tell me they're fighting right now. They can't be invading this very second…_

The winds pulled and tugged at him; it was like riding a roller-coaster blindfolded, never knowing whether the next turn was a left, a right, or a gut-churning loop.

_Don't you go in there and try to fight them; don't you dare—_

"Urk!"

He slammed, head first, into the rock face, and clawed wildly for some sort of handhold.

_Right, don't think about that. Happy thoughts._ He pulled himself up and shoved off, floating to an exterior staircase above. _Come on, Wendy, let's just think happy thoughts! _

A wave of hail sprayed battered his head, his shoulders. He lunged for the edge and, with a single hand gripping the slick stair, swung himself over to land on his stomach, straddling the steps.

_I _dare_ anyone to think happy thoughts in this! _

"Son-in-law!"

He rolled over, blinking, and gazed up the stair. At the top, sure enough, stood Cologne, who sheltered herself as best she could with her walking stick.

"You've made it far enough!" she yelled over the storm. "The path from here is open! Come inside!"

She needn't tell him twice. He trudged up the steps and, as he crossed the threshold to the tunnels within, promptly collapsed against the interior wall.

"Oh thank gods," he said, cradling his head. "I thought I'd die of cold before I found a path that wasn't blocked."

But his rest was short-lived. A hand yanked him by the collar, and a pair of fogged-up glasses were there to greet him. "What the hell are you doing, Saotome? The Sorcerers come to attack, and you want to sit here panting like a dog?"

"It's better than flapping around like a duck."

"Why you—"

WHAM! An elbow to the ribs cut off Mousse's retort.

"Shampoo…why?"

"You attack Shampoo airen, you attack Shampoo, too!" She pried Mousse's hand from Ranma's collar and promptly wrapped her arms around his neck instead. "Oh, Airen!"

"Oi, oi, I thought I heard something about a battle?"

Cologne's walking stick bonked Shampoo on the head, freeing Ranma from her grasp. "Keema's set an ambush for the Sorcerers at the summit. The others are there now."

"The others? So Ryōga and Konatsu and Ukyō?"

"My, if you forgot Tendō, perhaps there's some hope for you yet."

Ranma made a fist. "Nah, I didn't forget. I was just hoping she wasn't so dumb to actually come here. Damn that girl!" He dashed off through the tunnels, not caring if there were torch of lamp to light the way.

"Ah, Son-in-law?" said Cologne, her voice echoing after him.

"What?"

"The summit is this way?"

His feet skidded on wet rock. "Oh." He blinked. "Maybe you guys should lead."

"Follow Shampoo," said Cologne as he circled back. "Mousse and I will bring up the rear, just in case the Sorcerers have aims on this section of the mountain, too."

Ranma fell into step behind the younger Amazon. "All right, but we've got to wrap this up fast. Keema and her goons gave me up to the Sorcerers; you have to bet when this is done they'll turn on all of us!" He frowned. "Wait, how did you guys know I was down here?"

"Phoenix scouts spot you," said Shampoo. "She send us down as escort."

"Escort, huh?" He scratched his temple idly. Why would Keema, who betrayed him before, so willingly send his friends down for protection? Did she finally realize the dire state of the battle she was fighting? Had the siege turned out so poorly, as Surma said?

No, regardless of that, Keema would never send friends of his down alone. They'd have backup—the watchful eyes of other Phoenix-kind or perhaps Keema herself.

"You said they're fighting right now?"

"I heard sounds of battle as we descended, but we thought it best to make sure you made it to the top," said Cologne. "It seemed Keema wanted your expertise with their magic as soon as possible but had no one else to spare."

Ranma shook his head. Even to say they were all busy with the ambush, that made no sense either. If Keema truly thought him important to winning, shouldn't she have waited for him? Could she?

Even if she couldn't, the other possibility was more likely—that the reason she sent only three of them, only three of his friends, was that they had his trust; was that, in her mind, he might lower his guard against them, not even suspect—

He spun in stride; he raised a shell of ice on both sides!

And from Cologne's outstretched fingers to Ranma's shell, a surikomi egg smashed harmlessly on the frost.

#

While Ranma tangled with his friends and allies, the enemy of both Amazon and Phoenix alike writhed in the jaws of a mousetrap sprung. Dozens of Phoenix archers soared over the summit, pelting the black tunics with a hail of arrows, and from below, Keema led her army's charge on the ground, dashing up the mountain's winding path to the peak, but more effective than either of these measures were the betrayers in the Sorcerer ranks. Unaccustomed to defending against their own magic, fire and lightning cut down the loyalists, who took to barricading themselves in ice until their own magics ran out.

_But not me._

The captain, Kohl, was one of the few who still dared fight in the open. Willing and able to kill his own kind, Kohl lashed out at the rocky rim of the mountain itself, collapsing the ground beneath his enemies' feet. When Phoenix-kind took wing against him, he boxed them into a cage of flame and slowly crushed them in fire. They could fly out if they wished, of course—if they were willing to fly like the namesake bird of their tribe and go down in ashes and burning pitch.

BAM-BAM-BAM!

But Kohl wasn't the only one who knew how to wield fire that day. A ball of flame streaked past his chin. It caught him on the shoulder and kicked him off the side.

_No! I won't fall…so…easily! _

The flows of ki caught him, though. Like a mother's gentle hands, they raised him back to the ring atop the mountain, behind the Sorcerer whose mind had been turned. And there, before his foe could spin or blink—

THWAP!

He drove an ice spike through the offender's gut. A painful thing to do for a captain, to a man he'd trained for months, but less painful than dying. Less painful than defeat.

"Kohl!"

He doubled over, clutching his shoulder. "Don't say that name!"

"I'm sorry!" Tilaka rushed to his side. "You're hurt, aren't you?"

"Stay down!" Kohl looked to the horizon. "I have to fly you out of here. I can't let these people take you!"

"Does it hurt?"

"That doesn't matter!"

"It does hurt," said Tilaka, touching the burnt cloth. "Doesn't it?"

"It's fine!"

"No." Tilaka met his gaze. "It's not."

Five paces off, a Sorcerer with his staff eyed the two of them. Lightning swirled at the metal tips of the stick. He took a step, at first uncertain, but he picked up speed as he ran.

"Tilaka, down!"

CHING! The staff bent and snapped, striking hard ice. Tilaka's hands held up the shield, defending both herself and the captain.

"If you dare strike Wuya, there's only one thing to do with you," said the Sieve. "You have to burn."

The Sorcerer stared at her, puzzled.

"Burn."

The staff dropped to the ground. The Sorcerer, eyes wide, slapped at his hands, but there was nothing for him to extinguish. He beat and swiped at his arms, but the specter of flame that haunted him refused to be put out. It spread to his chest, his legs, his feet. He danced atop the summit; he writhed on the ground. He hollered. He screamed. At last he spotted the water. He must've known what it would do to him. Why else would he resist it for so long? But temptation would be stayed no longer. He dove into the cursed spring atop Phoenix Mountain, yet his torment, like that of Tantalus, continued. A swan surfaced in the well of the spring that day, and it splashed and cried and flapped its wings to no avail. It drowned itself in the spring water, for from its torture, that was the only escape.

"Tilaka…what have you done?"

But the Sieve heard not the captain's question. Instead, she—for she thought herself woman even as she wore the body of a boy—she erased the ice shield that protected her and instead stood tall for the world to see her, to hear her.

"All of you, stop."

Though she spoke in open air, though she said the words softly, as a child might to a baby, the combatants heard Tilaka, whether five feet away or five hundred. Where there was fighting, the blows ceased. Where arrows met bowstring, the archers relaxed and let their aim droop. Sorcerer and Phoenix and outsider alike took heed of the Sieve's words, for she would say them only once.

"Burn."

* * *

**Next:** Forced to fight his friends once again, Ranma makes a narrow escape, delving deeper into the mountain to exact revenge on Keema, on Wuya, and whoever else would dare cross him. **The fight for the Sieve and Ranma's vengeance continues in "The Battle of Phoenix Mountain" Part VI - "The Descent into Madness" - Coming February 4, 2011.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	39. Battle VI: The Descent into Madness

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** While Ranma fights Shampoo, Mousse, and Cologne down the mountain, the Sorcerers' Sieve has turned the tide of battle at the summit, afflicting all her enemies with the delusion that they burn alive.

* * *

**The Descent into Madness**

_Chapter Six, Act Six_

"Fall back! Don't let your eyes deceive you; fall back!"

Where the Phoenix captain was to lead this retreat, Akane couldn't say. She was too busy being boiled alive.

Phoenix and turned Sorcerer alike took to the water or jumped off the side of the mountain, tumbling to a quick and immediate death below. It was those who remained that bore the suffering, the anguish—the pain the Sieve Tilaka poured into their hearts.

_It's not real,_ thought Akane, collapsing, writhing beside a boulder. _It's not real; it's not real; it's not—_

Her skin bubbled; like chicken broth on a stove, it steamed. Blisters exploded, each with a sickening pop. POP POP POP!

Through clenched teeth she screamed. She cried. The fires ate at her eyes until there was only blackness in front of her, yet still she held on to that rock. If she let go, if she ran and wandered like so many of the others did, she'd end up like them, too—dead in the water, dead on the ground.

That's when the fire turned to acid—a withering acid that stung her hands, her fingers.

_Oh gods, no, no! _

She felt for limbs that no longer spoke to her, but all she found was sticky, smoldering goo.

Her bones had turned to sludge, and she felt them with stubs for wrists. She lay flat on the rocky path, and the fire, the burning acid, consumed her whole.

#

"Enough?"

A shadow passed over her closed eyes. Her eyelids weighed on her, heavy and sore, but she forced them open anyway.

"That is enough," the person above her said flatly. "Isn't it."

Fatigue and exhaustion tied her down. Akane answered only with a slight nod of the head.

"You involved yourself again," said another voice, cutting, accusatory. "Why?"

An ounce of strength she mustered, in her arms, her stomach. She willed herself upright, shaking off the stars that danced before her eyes. A perverse stillness had taken the mountain. The skies were clear. Sorcerers populated the rim of the summit, checking the bodies, prodding them with iron-tipped staves. The corpses of birds floated in the spring like the shattered remnants of a broken atoll.

Beside Akane lay Ryōga, still asleep, as was Ukyō. Quiet Konatsu tried to rouse his master, rubbing her on the shoulder, but still the chef lay prone on the ground.

"Answer me," said the Sorcerer captain. "Why are you still here?"

Her cheeks burned with fatigue—a feeling she thought reserved for the legs after a marathon or the arms once she broke a half-dozen cinderblocks. Never had she thought her face would get sore, but it did, and her hostile glare only sapped her further of energy.

"You know why," she said wearily.

"And this?" Wuya cast her arm wide over the summit. "Why did this happen? What did they do to my men?"

Akane closed her eyes and turned away.

Wuya tapped on the forehead of the boy with the bandana. "Perhaps this one knows?"

"He won't say anything."

"I think he would," said the other Sorcerer, the boy with a bowl of golden hair. "All it takes to frighten people is to know what haunts their dreams."

Shivering, Akane averted her gaze. This voice penetrated her mind before. He made it sound like her memories, her thoughts, her soul itself were an open book to him.

A book from which he ripped out the pages.

The boy crouched by Ryōga, cocking his head. "There's something this person's afraid of," he said. "Something that pains him, something he dreads."

Ryōga's eyes snapped open, wide and alive. He squirmed away from the Sorcerer, but the boy froze him with his gaze.

"It hangs in your nightmares, doesn't it? It corrupts your fantasies, your dreams."

"What are you?" said Ryōga. "Who are you?"

"It's your secret; your greatest fear. You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"Stop it!" Ryōga found his umbrella at his side, took it by the handle, and swung!

"And it hurts."

A jolt kicked the parasol from his hands. His fingers curled unnaturally, like a old man crippled by arthritis.

"It hurts so bad," said the Sorcerer, "it makes you want to die."

"No, no, I don't—" His face twisted; tears streamed down his cheek. "Akane-san!"

She shuddered.

"I didn't mean to!" he pleaded. "You have to understand—it was an accident! I swear it!"

"Stop it," said Akane.

"Please, don't be angry!"

"Stop!" She looked to Wuya. "Please, don't torture him anymore. It's the eggs you want—Keema's eggs. They capture a person inside, and whoever they see when it breaks they obey completely! That's the truth!"

"And Saffron?" asked the captain. "Where do we find him?"

Her heart sank. "I—I don't know…"

Wuya's steely gaze narrowed in an instant. "Tilaka," she said. "Continue."

Akane bolted to her feet, lunging at Tilaka. "No, don't do it!"

WHAM! A weight bashed her on the back of the head. Her face hit the dirt, and hot red blood flowed down her neck.

"Akane-san!"

"_No one_ touches the Sieve!" roared Wuya, pulling her staff back. "Saffron—tell us, now!"

"It's the truth!" said Ryōga. "We don't know! Keema would never tell us!"

The cold iron tip of Wuya's staff pressed against Akane's chin. "Are you certain?"

Ryōga spat. "I don't love that snot-nosed runt enough to protect him, not at the cost of Akane-san's life!"

"The eggs, then. Where are these eggs you spoke of?"

"There's a whole level of the mountain where they keep the birds. It's open to the air." Ryōga made a face. "I, uh, can't quite tell you where it is."

"You won't miss it if you fly down, like they do." To the side, Konatsu laid Ukyō flat on her back. "It's open to the air. The birds come and go freely. The Phoenix have a storeroom for the eggs in the level below it, too."

"I see," said Wuya. "Well, you've been helpful, but…" He opened her hand, and an ice spike grew between her palm and fingertips—

"No, captain." The Sieve raised an arm between them. "I think we can take pity."

"Why?" asked Akane, cradling her head. "Because you have us at your mercy?"

"Because you have a hole in your mind."

_A hole? _

Tilaka met their gazes, one by one.

"You all do."

#

Down below on the mountain, the eye of the storm was too narrow to bring tranquility to all. The eyewall battered the mid-levels with whipping winds and heavy, torrential showers. In this incessant storm fought Ranma—for his own friends had turned against him, bent on taking his mind or, failing that, his life.

"Why, Son-in-law? Why do you keep fighting? Do you believe that you're fighting for something, for more than your own survival?"

WHAM-WHAM-WHAM! A flurry of punches bashed at Mousse's ribs; his chains and blades lay limp at his wrists.

SWIPE, SWIPE! Shampoo's maces cut the air, yet the steel balls caught only a single strand of Ranma's pigtail.

"Can you tell me what it is?" asked Cologne, leaning on her walking stick. "Do you even know? Is it freedom? Or truth? Perhaps peace? Could it be for love? Illusions, Son-in-law, vagaries of perception, temporary constructs of a feeble Japanese intellect, trying desperately to justify an existence that is without meaning or purpose. You must be able to see it, Son-in-law; you must know it by now. You can't win. It's pointless to keep fighting. Why, Son-in-law, why? Why do you persist?"

CUT! His shirt tore open. His belly stung. A line of crimson seeped out just above the bellybutton, and Mousse's bladed shoe carried the tatters of fabric on its end.

"It's a little early for that sort of speech," said Ranma, wincing, panting as he braced himself on the interior wall of the tunnel. "We're not even at the end of the movie."

"You needn't insult us by suggesting this is theater." Cologne held an egg at the tips of her fingers. "Why don't you accept loyal service to Keema, as we do?"

WHAM SMASH THUD! Ranma barreled into Mousse's body, slamming him into rock. He bounced out the exit to an abandoned home, but the brutal cyclone had long since ripped the roof from the structure. Ranma had escaped to nothing but unforgiving rain.

"What now, Son-in-law?" said Cologne, standing squarely in the doorway. "Will you jump and jump as I found you doing? My legs are spry. I will catch you."

"Maybe _you_ will, but Donald Duck and puh-puh-pussy cat don't have a chance!" he shouted over the downpour. "As long as I'm outside, _I_ have the advantage!"

Cologne lifted her index finger. "Do you now?"

KA-PAM! Cologne blasted a crater in the floor, rocking the house on its flimsy supports.

"Come out and fight, or I'll sever this structure from the mountain and send you to your demise."

Ranma put a hand and knee to the floor, holding steady while the house lurched and jerked. "You know what I think? I don't need to fight you guys at all." From his palm on the floor, a ring of frost spread. "I just need long enough to get away."

CRINK! The ice grew over the doorway, forming a solid sheet.

"Hah!" said Cologne, pulling her fist back. "If you think simple water will stop us, allow me to disappoint!" She punched! And the ice wall cracked; it crumbled.

"Surprise!" Through the fragments of the shattered wall, Ranma leapt, swinging a long, thin shaft of ice.

BAM! The shaft crunched on the bridge of Mousse's nose, snapping his glasses.

SMASH! Jagged ice bashed against Shampoo's bandages. Her leg buckled; she fell to a knee.

"Nice try, Son-in-law!"

WHAM! A punch to the jaw.

THUD. A jab to the gut. With her free hand, Cologne drew another egg!

THWAP! But Ranma sniped it from the air with an ice spike.

_Damn that old bat,_ he thought, panting, backing into the rain once more. _Hit me twice, and I got nothing to show for it._ His side throbbed; his leg went stiff. _Oh, great, she probably hit a pressure point, too._

"What now?" asked Cologne, smug and sure. "How much damage will you do to us to escape with your soul intact? Hold back, and these eggs will surely take you. Give your fullest, and even if you managed to turn us back, you might cripple us for life."

"Pretty sure you'd choose being crippled over working as Keema's mind-slaves."

"That doesn't lessen the choice."

Indeed it didn't. Cologne was a formidable foe even with ki magic on Ranma's side. If he fought and died, that would serve nothing. If he fought at all, it would slow him down, but where was there to run? In these howling winds, how could he think to get away?

KA-PAM! Cologne broke through the floor to daylight below. The wrecked house tilted, and faults appeared down the width of the home.

"Well, Son-in-law? Will you yield? Will you come inside to finish the fight? Or shall I send you to your death? Keema will be satisfied with that as well."

Ranma looked to the skies, and despite the downpour, the faint gap in the clouds over the summit caught his eye.

"Go ahead," he said. "Do it."

"Resigned to fate, are we?" Cologne laughed. "Not the way I thought you would go." She pressed her finger to the floor. "But so be it!"

CRACK! The fissures spread, breaking through the ledge. The house lurched and tumbled, end over end, and so did Ranma, falling to the earth below.

The three Amazons stared out the hole, still and quiet, but the silence lasted for only a short time.

"What were we doing here?" asked Shampoo, who scratched at her bandages.

"I wish I could tell you," said Mousse, "but right now, I can't see anything!" He cursed the bent frames of his glasses and flicked away a shard of glass. "We must've gotten separated from Keema somehow."

"No," said Cologne with a profound frown, "I highly doubt that." She crouched to the floor and eyed a piece of eggshell; she fished her pocket, and recovered two more eggs. "If matters were so simple, then why do I have these?"

THWAP! An ice spike speared both surikomi eggs and dug into the tunnel wall. Sure enough, before the tunnel exit floated Ranma, whose magic fought the blustery winds.

"Did you guys really think I'd die so easily?"

"Son-in-law! What are you—"

"You didn't know I could pull off this trick, did you? Well, I've got another one. You see…" He put forth his index finger. "I can break rock, too."

"No, wait—"

Ranma touched the roof of the tunnel. KA-PAM! Rocky rubble fell in on the Amazons, blocking the path.

"Sorry guys," said Ranma. "But you're all tough enough not to be put off by that for long. I just need a minute or two…" He eyed the summit. "To get up there."

To get up there for Akane—if ever she needed him, now was the time, but he pushed aside his fears of what might happen to her, the images of the battle that was surely taking place. He needed to fly and fly well. To fight against this windstorm, he kept his mind focused: training in the dojo, defeating an old rival, walking along the canal that girl in her uniform at his side. He was a simple guy, after all. He wanted simple things.

And the simplicity of his desires brought him through the eyewall, into the light of day. In calm air and cool sunlight, he floated to the summit, where the picture of things was anything but serene.

_It's already over._ His heart sank. "Akane!"

He touched down on the rim; he dashed over the corpses of the fallen, of Sorcerers who died by their comrades' hands.

"Akane!"

"Ranma-sama, here!"

_Oh thank gods._ "Konatsu!"

The kunoichi's hand waved at him from behind a boulder.

"Geez, what the hell happened—Ucchan!"

"She's all right," Konatsu assured him. "That is, she's breathing. When the Sorcerers headed into the mountain, they left us alone."

A melting ice spike stuck in the corpse of a winged warrior.

"The Phoenix weren't so lucky. The Sorcerers—they had a boy with them. He made us feel, made us think…I can't explain it."

"That's Tilaka. Unbelievable, that he did this. I would've snapped his neck if I'd known he was so dangerous." He glanced around the rim of the mountain. "Was it just the two of you here? Where's Ryōga? Akane?"

"Ryōga-sama begged her to stay, but she refused. That Tilaka, he looked at all of us. He said we have holes in our minds, so Akane-sama took Ryōga-sama back into the mountain, to look for eggs."

"So it wasn't just Shampoo and the others…" He balled his hands to tight, shaking fists. "That bitch Keema—she turned all of you!"

"I don't feel any different," said Konatsu, "but I can't think of how or when Keema could've done it, either. I should've defended myself. I should've known."

"So you let them go? Akane and Ryōga by themselves?"

"I'd have gone with them if I could!" He gestured to the limp body before him. "But I couldn't leave Ukyō-sama."

Ryōga and Akane, wandering aimlessly, vulnerable to Keema's influence. That lost boy would probably find himself in India before he reached the eggs again. No, this task would fall to Ranma, and he had every intention not to disappoint. He'd gather the eggs to rescue his friends, and together, they'd march against Keema; they'd show the Phoenix captain the error of her deceptions.

_You can't make me fight my friends and expect me to be happy with it. You can't send them to take my mind and think I won't come looking for _you_ when it's over! _

On Konatsu's advice, he flew down to the expansive aviary, the home of the graceful surikomi birds, but a chill hung in the air. Ranma glided to a hollow in the mountain, a vast, cavernous space.

"Oof!"

And bumped into a solid volume of ice.

"No way."

It wasn't a slab—it was thick. It wasn't a chunk—it was too big. Ice permeated the sanctuary. Frozen birds hung in mid-air like insects caught in amber resin.

The Sorcerers wanted to know where the eggs were. Not to use them for themselves—no, they'd killed all the men who'd turned on them. They wanted to destroy the eggs, every egg, to ensure no one else would turn a Sorcerer against the Lady.

And, in doing so, had damned all others who still served Keema's will.

_Damn you, Wuya. Damn you, Keema. Damn all of you! _

WHAM! He punched at the solid wall, knocking off tiny shards and shavings, but the damage was inconsequential. He could punch and kick and bash his head against the ice all he wanted. His body would make only a small dent, and to fight ice with ice…no, that made even less sense to try.

That's right. Senseless. That's what it was. They were helping her—_Akane_ was helping her—and she betrayed them. She controlled them.

That's why she deserved to be punished.

That's why she deserved to suffer.

#

By the sparse, sporadic light of torches, _she_ hunched over an unrolled scroll with a brush pen. "Where are they now?"

"Two-fifths down from the top," said Masala. "And moving quickly. They haven't bothered to secure a whole level all the way through. They're taking the most direct line they can."

"To Lord Saffron." With a broad stroke, she pained black from the top of the mountain down. "Someone must've talked."

"Can you blame them? That technique they have—"

"_No one_ should talk! It's our duty to die before we give up Lord Saffron's location! Take some men; move our Lord to a safe location."

"Where, captain?"

Keema's fist pounded the map, smearing the ink. "Anywhere! Don't you understand? Anywhere is safer than where they know he must be!"

Masala blinked. "That still doesn't tell me _where_, though…"

The Phoenix captain twirled the pen for a moment, then drew two circles on the map. "Take him to this storehouse. Gather anyone you can on the way there. I'll face these demons head-on."

Wide-eyed, Masala puzzled over the map.

"Go!" barked Keema. "Now! You five, go with him!"

"Yes, captain!"

Alone now, alone again. At last, it was quiet. In the makeshift court of the Phoenix, Keema sat on the throne, still and pensive. Her warriors watched her—waiting for her to lead them to the enemy—but on the throne she remained. Less than a dozen awaited her command.

How could this have happened? So many Sorcerers she turned with her eggs. Her agents among them captured more by night and summoned them back to the mountain, to train and watch and wait. The captain was dangerous. The Sieve, they told her, was frightening, yet even still, she'd underestimated his power. He crippled Ranma with the darkest of fears, but an army? An army of all Keema could spare and the Sorcerers she'd brainwashed, too?

She made a fist, as if to hold on to the lifeblood of her people between her fingers, but it seeped through the cracks. It dripped on the stone floor. The mountain itself bled, and try as she might to seal the wound, an ocean of red flooded the tunnels. The storm of death hovered over the mountain, and nothing would make it budge.

"Yah!"

A faint cry; it echoed, soft and distant. It rumbled in the walls; they shook, and dust shook from them.

_It can't be…they can't be here already! _

Thud. Thud thud.

_They are._ Keema bolted from her seat, marching for the door. "All of you, with me!"

The room cleared, filing out behind her.

THWAP! Under the light of a fallen torch, a column of ice speared Masala. Not twenty paces away, he struggled, yanking on the spike, but the ice stuck through his wing, pinning him to the wall.

"Masala!"

"Stay back, captain!" Struggling, Masala kicked against the wall, but the safety of the floor eluded him—a floor littered with the bodies of his men.

"Where did they go?" called Keema, approaching with her own torch. "Point the way!"

Masala's eyes scanned the tunnels. "I don't know, but he's still here…"

'_He' is? _

THWAP! Down went one Phoenix, impaled through the chest.

THWAP! And another.

"Show yourself!" Keema cast her torch in both directions, yet the fire lit up only a small circle of sight. "Where are you?"

It moved in the shadows, silent, deadly. It leapt from wall to ceiling and faded from sight before arrow or blade could strike back. It lobbed a ball of ice at Keema—a sphere that sparkled in firelight.

"Down!"

BAM! It shattered! Shards of ice sprayed the Phoenix, and with jagged pieces stuck in their bodies, ever more of Keema's men fell. A square, blunt piece crunched against her nose, and it was all she could do to breathe through dripping, bleeding nostrils.

"Where are you?"

Her voice echoed through the tunnels, ringing clear and true, for all else was silent. Keema's small band lay dead or dying on the floor, and little could she move without stepping over them…or on them.

"Come out," she taunted the shadows. "Come out now, Saotome Ranma."

Hands behind her back, the pigtailed girl paced into the light with eyes narrow, her gaze intense.

"It took me a while to find you." Ranma walked over the bodies, eying each one. "I didn't know where you'd be at first, what with the rain and all. Figured you wouldn't like that."

"Quite the way you have about you," said Keema, chuckling. "Of saying hello, I mean."

THWAP! A spike punctured her wing, lodging in the wall.

"You think this is funny?" said Ranma, standing before her. "You think this is a game?"

Keema grasped the spike with both hands, her hands slipping on the slick surface. "I don't know about your people, but the games my people play are much more amusing than this."

"You brainwashed my friends; you took control of them, made me fight them again, and for what? They were helping you!"

"Helping?" She snapped the spike off halfway and pushed with her free hand against the wall behind her. If she couldn't pull it out, she'd force her wing to slide over it, get free—

WHAM! An ice-covered fist crunched against her ribs. The air left her lungs. Her chest tingled, the first sensation of pain. She sagged against the spike, and Ranma kicked her back, flat against the wall, banging her head on the rock.

"Helping, you say," she muttered, dazed, weary. "Like you helped us when you told the Sorcerers to take Lord Saffron? That kind of help?"

"They already thought it was him."

"And you encouraged them! We only wished to go back to our mountain, but you couldn't leave us alone!"

"Is that why you turned them?" asked Ranma. "The only payback good against me was to make my friends your slaves?"

"Slaves?" She laughed. A crazed, hysterical laugh. "I care not for that! But there are always outsiders watching us, looking at us—outsiders like you who interfere. I turned them so they would go back to their homes and turn others! Your people, the Amazons, the Sorcerers—all for the same reason, all with the same purpose. They would go and look and listen. To ensure, now and forever, that no one would come to this mountain with malice again! That was the plan, so that the moment anyone on the Plateau spoke Lord Saffron's name, my agents would be there to turn him…or end him."

THWAP! A second spike cut through Keema's other wing. The pair held her pinned, and though she clawed and grasped for Ranma's throat, he hovered just outside her reach.

"You're scum," he said. "That's all you are."

"What happened? All your talk of wanting to save my people from the Sorcerers—what happened to that? Was that your deceit, too?"

A sharp spike stopped short, just at the tip of her chin.

"What do you want me to say?" said Ranma, cocking his arm to thrust. "What do you want me to do? It'd be easy, you know. I wouldn't regret it."

"Regret what?"

He trembled; his arm shook. The sharpened tip of the spike cut Keema lightly, drawing the faintest trace of blood.

"I could count you among the rest of your men," he said, eying the bodies. "I could make you a number, just like them."

Keema narrowed her eyes. "Then do it. Let me not preside over Lord Saffron's demise. Let me die, so I can say I gave my life for him."

Enraged, Ranma drew back the spike and smashed her across the head, shattering the ice.

"So that's what you want?" he said, tossing aside the fragments that remained. "Well, guess what—I can be a sadistic little bitch, too. You want to die so badly? You stay. Stay, and think about what you've done."

"No!"

He turned his back and walked, fading into the dark. "Goodbye, Keema."

"Do you know how I captured them all? Do you know what let me do it?"

The stone was wet—wet with blood—yet Ranma walked on it all the same.

"It was your lover! That Tendō! Her weakness gave me the means! She threw the eggs that turned them, every single one!"

_You stay,_ he thought, dulling his heart to cold.

"I made her my slave, and you won't exact revenge for that? You won't see that justice is done?"

_Stay and think about what you've done._

There were five with Masala, seven with Keema. He wasn't sure they all perished, but it was likely they would. Twelve they were, and fourteen had come before. Twenty-eight was the number of the dead, and it was a number he'd never forget, not until he drove an ice spike through another soul.

"Come back here, Saotome! Saotome Ranma!"

_Like I will._

* * *

**Next:** As the Sorcerers close on Saffron's location, Ryōga and Akane search in vain for eggs to free themselves, and Ranma tears through all who might oppose him. **The fight for minds, bodies, and souls continues in "The Battle of Phoenix Mountain" Part VII - "Flames Extinguished" - Coming February 11, 2011.**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	40. Battle VII: Flames Extinguished

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** As the Sorcerers march on Saffron, Ryōga and Akane scour the mountain for the surikomi eggs—the only magic that can give their minds back.

* * *

**Flames Extinguished**

_Chapter Six, Act Seven_

"Stop, Ryōga-kun. It's no good."

"It's just a little ice!"

From a hole bored into the rock, Hibiki Ryōga battered and bashed on the solid volume of ice, but compared to the size of aviary, his cracks and chips amounted to little of consequence.

"It's frozen all the way through," said Akane.

WHAM! His knuckles, wet and raw, rang with the force of the blow. Shaking his fingers, Ryōga let out a pained sigh. "What now then?"

"We find Keema. If anyone has an egg, she does."

"She can control both of us, right? How do you expect to get an egg from her?"

Akane eyed the mammoth chunk of ice, how it sparkled in light, how droplets ran down its surface, seeping into the rock beneath.

"I don't know."

They made their way back through the tunnel Ryōga carved, back to the passages of Phoenix's making. There they treaded lightly, for the sounds of battle echoed through the mountain. Swords and daggers rent flesh. Ice froze wings, and fire charred the inert remains.

"This way," said Ryōga, pointing down a path.

Akane winced. "Are you…sure that's right?"

"No," he said, scratching his head. "But I know the fighting's in the other direction. I may not know these tunnels, but I know that where the Sorcerers are, we should stay away."

She nodded, following his lead. "If it were just you, if I were't here, would you be so cautious?"

He opened and closed a fist, stretching his fingers. "No doubt, I'd like to face them, but this isn't about honor in battle or training in arts. This is about surviving, and the best way to survive—for us to survive together—is to fight only when we must."

"You're very wise, Ryōga-kun."

"That—that's not so!" He scratched the back of his head bashfully. "We just have to look out for each other right now. That's all."

Akane stopped. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Why did you kiss my hand, Ryōga-kun?"

"I, um, er, that is…I kissed your hand?"

"You did, when we were running from Wuya before." She blinked. "You forgot?"

"No! No, no, I didn't forget." He bowed his head. "The truth is, Akane-san…"

"Yes?"

"I've felt for a long time now that I…that you…"

"Yes?"

He turned to face her, his arm tense, his fist clenched.

"That I would always do my best to protect you, no matter what!"

Akane stared, her mouth half-open. Ryōga, too, blinked for a moment, as if that wasn't what he meant to say.

"Huh?"

"Um, that is, well…" His voice shifted up an octave, like a child's. "Shall we keep going, then?"

"Sure."

He marched past her.

"Ah, but Ryōga-kun? Weren't we going the other way?"

He did an about-face. "Ah. You're right. How silly of me." He laughed—a short, nervous chuckle.

That kept going.

And going.

Until he ran out of breath to sustain it.

_Poor Ryōga-kun,_ thought Akane. _I'm sorry. I shouldn't press you. If you have something to say to me, you will, in your own time. I just wish I'd realized sooner._ Her eyes bulged. _Oh gods, I took him on dates! To get back at Ranma! And that was bad enough, but Ryōga-kun—he could've easily thought that I was…_ She bit her lip. _Oh that was bad. I'm sorry, Ryōga-kun. Whenever you want to talk about it, I'm sorry._

Truthfully, this was neither the place nor time to discuss matters of the heart. Ryōga was right: survival overrode all other concerns. The last thing Akane needed was to fluster him with more talk of his gallantry and the meaning behind it.

And it felt inappropriate in more than one way, for gallantry, honor—those lofty concepts seemed utterly foreign on this battlefield, where the dead lay as they'd fallen, with neither rite nor ritual to mark their sacrifice. The bodies of Phoenix warriors Ryōga and Akane passed. Some still bore the melting ice that impaled them. Others choked and died under cave-ins. Whatever the reason, whatever the cause, Akane checked the bodies for signs of life—a pulse, a wispy breath, something that might portend hope.

"I'm sorry, Akane-san," said her companion. "I don't think we have time to check them all."

Right again was Hibiki Ryōga, and after a fashion, Akane stopped looking at them—as if to avoid their eyes meant they were never alive at all. Maybe it was better to hope they were dead, rather than think she passed someone who still might lived, if only she helped them.

"It's kind of you to think of them," he said. "Perhaps too kind. I know it's ill to wish death on people, but they crossed us. We should let the Sorcerers take Saffron and root out all these buzzards. Then we can take the eggs and be on our way."

"We can't do that," said Akane. "It doesn't matter what they've done to us. The Sorcerers are the ones who have Ranma. They're the bad guys here!"

"But Keema and her people are just as guilty. They used you, Akane-san. They violated you."

Akane made a face. "That's, um, a bit strong, don't you think?"

"I don't." With a stern, determined expression, Ryōga cracked his knuckles one by one. Crack, crack.

Until he pinched a nerve.

"Yow…"

"Shh!"

"I'm sorry; it's never happened before!"

"That's not what I mean!" said Akane in a hushed whisper. "Look where we are. Doesn't it seem familiar?"

Ryōga glanced down both ends of the tunnel. "In the dark, it does? Maybe?"

"This is where Keema moved her throne—well, close, anyway. You led us right to it!"

"Oh, of course! That was the plan all along…I think."

Akane peered into the doorway, torch over her head. "Strange. No one inside?"

Ryōga cupped a hand over his ear. "Maybe they left to find the Sorcerers again? I don't hear—"

Thud. A light _clink_ resonated through the passage.

"Over there!"

"Akane-san, wait!"

"Sorry! This time, I think we have to head toward the sound!"

He caught her wrist, holding her back. "Then, at least…let me go first."

A groan echoed through the tunnel. "Will you people decide what you want to do already?" said a weak voice. "I'm tired of listening."

Ryōga frowned. "I know that voice. Masala!"

The pair rushed down the tunnel, and into the light came the carnage, the splatter of blood that mixed with ice and water. Masala slumped next to the wall, a severed ice spike cutting through his wing.

"Somehow," said Masala, "I'm not surprised to see you."

"What happened here?" asked Akane. "The Sorcerers?"

"Them?" He laughed bitterly. "No, it was him. He came—that devil. He attacked the captain, spiked her to the wall and stomped off like nothing had happened. We were all surprised. You said he learned Sorcerer magic; I didn't think he'd get that much better that fast."

"Devil?" asked Ryōga. "Who are you talking about?"

"It's Ranma!" Akane knelt by Masala's side, shaking him. "He's here, isn't he?"

"He did this. All of it."

"Why?"

"Revenge on us, for what we did to you." With a dull gaze, he held his fingers to the light, rubbing the blood between them. "And he did that. I'll say he did it." His arm went limp. "I'll say…"

"Hey, stay with us, okay? Ryōga-kun, you have some bandanas, don't you? We can tie up his wounds."

Ryōga cringed. "They're a bit sharp."

"Leave me," said Masala.

"But—"

"Leave me! I was too wounded to go with the captain, but I'll manage."

"You want us to just abandon you here?" asked Akane.

He kicked at the floor, and a piece of paper crumpled underfoot. "That's the map," he said. "To Lord Saffron's chamber. It was Captain Keema's final task for me. She's wounded, too. She's strong, but even she can lose."

Akane slid the map out from under him, and she and Ryōga huddled over it. "Are you sure—"

"Go!" said Masala. "That first circle—that is where Lord Saffron sleeps. Please, I beg you. I know what we did to you. I don't know what would've happened if we'd had Lord Saffron to fight with us." He gazed about the tunnel and the dead whose corpses lay at his side. "But I know what's happened without him."

Akane followed his gaze for a moment, but when the first speck of blood met the corner of her eye, she looked away. While she'd fought against herself, her mind, the control Keema imposed on her, Ranma had become something else. Something lethal. Something otherworldly. To think that he'd slay all these people just to get back at Keema…

_No. Ranma is Ranma. If Keema was willing to control us, she'd want Ranma, too. He defended himself. That's it._

She eyed the spike that pierced Masala's wing.

_That's what it has to be._

"We have no choice then." Ryōga rose, map in hand. "We should go to Saffron."

Akane turned aside, whispering so Masala wouldn't hear. "Weren't you just saying we should let Saffron be taken?"

"I was, but Keema will be there. And I bet, somehow, that Ranma will be there, too."

True it was, and a chance to see Ranma she wouldn't pass up, for as much as he could fluster her, make her confused, make her heart flutter, when Akane doubted herself most, Ranma was there to encourage her—to say she should go back in the pool and swim one more time. Once Ranma was back with them, all would be right.

She stepped over a body, into the film of water and blood that covered the floor.

#

"Keep fighting!"

In the bowels of the mountain, the Phoenix captain rallied her troops. The bird-men of Saffron's tribe rushed headlong against the invaders, but though they showed no fear, no hesitation to fight and die in Saffron's name, their bravery protected them not from the destructive magics of ki.

Z-Z-ZAP! Lightning fried a Phoenix warrior, burning the hair from his eyebrows.

BAM-BAM-BAM! The Thousand Wings of the Seabird cut the offending Sorcerer down, but the penetrating waves of pressure left on the victim a distinctive mark: a fine, thin spray of blood.

Keema's blood, for the Phoenix captain battled even as the wounds Ranma gave her bled freely.

"Keep fighting, I say!"

THWAP! A whole tunnel filled with ice, mashing against the rock. The column missed Keema at the junction by mere millimeters.

_This is madness. How could so many of them survive from the summit? _

"We survive because the Lady wills it."

She jolted, hands raised, and faced the voice that called to her.

"You…"

It was Tilaka, alone and unarmed, but Keema knew that face, that voice, too well. He devastated her people on the summit. By no means would she underestimate him again.

"Die!" She swiped!

At air.

She stumbled; her weight carried her forward. She expected to hit something, and like a batter who whiffs at a curveball, she lost her footing instead.

"I don't understand. Why do you keep going?"

The voice was behind her now. How could he get around her like that?

_No matter; I care not to understand this trickery, only to defeat it! _

The Wings of the Seabird slashed at Tilaka but cut only into the ice behind him instead. They passed though him…

Like he wasn't really there at all.

"What you see isn't real," said the image, the mirage of the Sieve. "And so are your hopes. You must know that."

"Lord Saffron is our life!" said Keema. "You can't have him!"

Another voice called to her. "And you can't stop us."

With a grip like a vice, Wuya snatched Keema's arm, and a layer of frost spread from her hand. It sped past the elbow to her shoulder, her chest.

And maybe, somewhere within the mountain, some unfortunate soul heard Keema's scream.

#

But that soul wasn't Ranma.

THWAP!

_Thirty-four._

Phoenix and Sorcerer alike—they all knew him when he walked by. They all knew his face. Even as they fought each other, they attacked him.

That was their last mistake.

WHAM! His icy punches smashed ribs and shins.

TA-PAM! An orb of frost exploded, decimating his foes with piercing shards.

Z-Z-ZA-TCH!

"Ow!"

He shook out his fingers, shedding sparks from the fingertips. Lightning he'd have to work on a bit.

Sorcerer and Phoenix, more angry with him than each other, charged at him down the tunnel side-by-side.

_Whatever._

THWAP-THWAP-THWAP!

_Thirty-seven._

Thus he roamed the tunnels with only the vaguest idea of where to go. Down, most likely. Saffron had to be down, away from the summit. Beyond that, he knew not where the little brat might be hiding, and he cared not to know wholly, either. Akane wouldn't know where to go. Why should he?

In truth, though he looked for her in this black, darkened pit of war, it was better, he thought, that she not be there to watch him, that she couldn't see the havoc he wrought.

_You can't understand this, Akane, because I don't understand it myself._

Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty. He walked through battles that spanned multiple levels of the mountain, yet they all came after him—the outsider to both tribes, the one each feared and hated. For separate reasons, perhaps, but the result was the same.

_They don't understand. You guys—you're the ones making me attack you, get it? Do you think you can kill me? Do you think I'll hold back? _

THWAP!

Forty-one.

_It doesn't matter if it's a hundred, if it's ten thousand! You're all numbers, and numbers don't matter! _

If numbers didn't matter, then why did he keep count?

WHAM! His frozen fist decked a Phoenix warrior, but that wasn't enough. Ranma has to be certain none of these men would walk when he'd gone—that they wouldn't go running to Keema or someone else and bring greater numbers. He wasn't invincible, after all. He could tire. Sweat beaded on his brow, even in the shelter of the mountain. That's why, to all those who might yet breathe—

THWAP-THWAP!

He counted them among the dead, for death was the only safe thing to keep in his wake. It let him hear the pounding of his own heart, the sound that told he was still alive.

Still human.

And when the sounds of battle reached his ears, he made for them.

#

"They've moved through here already." Ryōga touched a finger to a melting ice spike, a fragment lodged in the tunnel wall. "We're behind."

Yes, yes, Akane could see that, but not from the temperature of the water or the lack of movement, the stillness in the air.

Nay, it was the color, or lack of it, in the dead. The blood drained from their faces, settling at the lowest points it could reach. Gravity waited for no man, after all, and with the blood, it sapped the color from their cheeks, their lips. They were like dolls, fresh from the factory but lacking the proper shade of paint.

"Yeah," said Akane, shivering. "We're very behind."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's just all this, but I'm cold." She sighed, and the moisture in her breath came out as a visible fog.

"Strange," said Ryōga. "I know they use ice magic, but—"

They turned a corner, and the passage before them was solid with ice.

"Oh." He snorted. "Wonderful. The last thing we need—for them to use that trick more."

"It's an exceptionally powerful technique," said a voice. "Don't you think?"

Akane and Ryōga exchanged a glance. "Keema?"

They raced to a junction, and sure enough, and sure enough the Phoenix captain lay still and vulnerable—a statue she was from her toes to her neck. A sharp, rectangular block of ice encased her, leaving only her head open to the air.

"Well, well, my children," she said. "It seems you've happened on me as I fall to sleep one more time."

Akane brushed her hand over the slick, melting surface. "What happened? Why would they do this to you?"

"It seemed the captain of theirs wanted confirmation, to know for certain where Lord Saffron was hiding." She scoffed. "I told her nothing, even as her companion reached his god-forsaken hand into my mind. She knew anyway, though. Someone among my people has less fortitude than I." Her teeth chattered. "Perhaps we were doomed from the start."

Ryōga towered over her, staring at Keema from above. "I could probably break this block for you. You might still live…if you tell us where the eggs are, if you tell us what we want to know."

"And break my bones while you smash it?" She laughed. "Thank you, but no. If I want your help, I'll force it from you. I have no need to accept your threats."

"So you did turn us all into slaves again, even after you freed me," said Akane. "How?"

Keema met her eyes with a knowing gaze. "You understand there are birds that lay these eggs, yes?"

A nod.

"And tell me, even when a hen mates with a rooster, does every egg she lays bear a chick?"

"I suppose not."

Keema looked to the ceiling with a knowing smirk. "The egg was blank! Powerless! It behooves us to know which before they're used, yet seldom had they proved so handy. When you emerged, I used a keyword I'd setup beforehand. A 'kernel of insight' it was, from the seeds of my power over you. You thought you regained your memory, but in truth, it was only the version I instilled in you."

"You're not making a good case for us to help you," said Ryōga. "And your lips are turning blue."

"Do not think you can intimidate me. I have no fear of death. My people and my lord Saffron—I've failed them both. The Sorcerers make for his chambers now, and if I should live, I would preside only over the decimation of my people. For that failure, I should die in battle! And if I don't, every man who heeded my command should kill me anyway and declare himself best to take my place!"

"If you're so eager to die, we won't stop you, but tell us—you've got more eggs around here, don't you? What does it matter for us to be your slaves if you're dead?"

She laughed—a crazed yet reserved chuckle. "You're not merely my servant, child. Every man or woman of Phoenix blood is your master. I have written it, and they shall know it even if I die. That is my gift to you, comrades of Saotome Ranma, outsiders to the Phoenix tribe who shall never be friend to it! You thought you could use us to fight your battles, your war? Well, know this: as long as one Phoenix survives, your minds won't be yours, not completely. Though you may yet escape this mountain alive, the corners of your souls I've hidden you will _never_ recover."

"Why?" asked Akane.

"Please, don't bore me with that question."

WHAM! Akane kicked the near corner of the block, shoving it into the wall. Keema's head jerked and jolted; she winced, trying to hold still.

"I'm sorry," said Akane. "We're 'boring' you, is that it?"

WHAM!

"You can take all the time you like to explain what you did to us, but the _why_ is too dull, too uninteresting to go into?"

WHAM-WHAM-WHAM!

"Akane-san, stop!"

She lunged against Ryōga, clawing, thrashing to get at the helpless bird. "You give us back our minds, Keema! Give them back now!"

"I won't! You want to know why? I'll tell you. It's really quite simple."

"Say it, then!"

Keema smirked. "It's because I hate you."

In Ryōga's arms, Akane froze, meeting the Phoenix captain's gaze.

"I hate everything about you, all of you, and I could think of nothing more cruel, more insidious, than to steal a portion of your souls and let you _know_ they were gone, so you'd always wonder, when you slept at night, whether your dreams were really your own."

Akane's glare beat down on her. "So when you said I offered myself to you, for your experiment, was it true? Or was that all part of the lie, too?"

Keema met her gaze but said nothing. Instead, the Phoenix captain closed her eyes and lay back for a long slumber in silence.

#

The brink of defeat for the Phoenix also meant great victory for the Sorcerers—and indeed, with an ear-splitting _crack_, the tip of a battle staff bashed in the skull of Saffron's last defender.

"Spread out," said Kohl, who shoved the body aside. "I want no interruptions. If the Phoenix King won't submit quietly, this may take some time."

Before a pair of iron doors, the captain, the Sieve, and a dozen stragglers secured the halls.

"Isn't it strange?" asked Tilaka. "That Saffron would hide here, even while his people are dying for him?"

"He could be too wounded to fight," said Kohl. "Yes, that would explain things, wouldn't it. The outsider—she knew she'd injured him. She knew, if she did nothing to stop us, he would be easy prey."

Tilaka ran his finger down the seam between the doors. "I hope that's all."

"We shall see. Slice through the doors! Be precise; be careful. Let's not kill him accidentally because he's frail."

"Yes, captain!" Six Sorcerers surrounded the entrance and blasted the iron with hot electrical sparks.

"Good," said Kohl. "Tilaka, stay here with the group. I must setup a fire."

"Where are you going?"

"This time shouldn't go to waste. I'll contact the outside, have them lift the storm. When Saffron is under our control, we ride back to the village on the flows of ki."

#

"Are you sure it's this way, Akane-san?"

"I'm pretty sure. This is the only route that doesn't look like it's blocked with ice. It makes sense. Wuya took the straight path. We're having to go around."

"I don't know. I think I'd like to have a look at that map."

Akane backpedaled a step.

"Just for a second! It would, uh, give me some peace of mind?"

"No offense, Ryōga-kun, but I've seen what you can do even _with_ a map."

He sighed. "Well, at least the weather's cleared up."

With her torch burning near its end, Akane peered out a window, map in hand. At long last, the gray rain had dissipated, yet the cold, damp feeling in the air remained. Standing water surrounded the mountain, and where the rocky plain gave way to dirt, a mix of mud and sludge mucked up the ground.

How ironic they were—these rays of sun. With the veil of the storm lifted, one should think the battle over, but just as the storm left traces, so did the ongoing fight.

And some of those traces would never go away. Keema used her; she planted false memories in Akane's mind, and just when Akane thought she'd done right by Ranma somehow—no matter that it shocked her, that she couldn't imagine giving her mind to Keema again—the egg took that away, too. She was alive. Ranma was alive, somewhere in this mountain, but everything else withered around them.

Yet the sun still shines over devastation, over wasteland. Its warmth is indiscriminate—which means it doesn't give any real warmth at all.

"Akane-san."

She flinched. "Ah, just a minute," she said, squinting at the map. "Let me just make sure…"

"No, look outside."

She shaded her eyes, crouching. "What is it that you—"

Dots. Dozens of black dots that flew over the plain.

"Let's say they were the ones who brought the storm on us," said Ryōga. "If they made it stop, doesn't that mean…?"

"They don't need it anymore." Akane rolled up the map. "Come on; we have to go!"

KA-POW, KA-POW! Rubble hurtled past the window. The Sorcerers carved their way into the mountain above and below.

"They're all over the place," said Ryōga. "Do you hear them?"

"Yeah, I hear them. We'll be okay, if we can stay quiet—"

THWAP, BANG! A spike bored into the rock, tearing a piece of Ryōga's shirt.

"Unless they're right behind us," muttered Ryōga. He reached into his pocket and called back down the tunnel. "You want to fight, do you? Take this!"

A pair of bandanas he flung down the tunnel, and the bubbling yelp of a Sorcerer told him he hit his mark.

"This way!" said Akane, dragging Ryōga by the wrist. Together they fled, deeper into the mountain, into everlasting dark, but the Sorcerers came from everywhere. They chased with flame and sonic waves, the pressure of air that rattled the ears.

THWAP! A tunnel froze over, blocking the path.

"What now?" asked Ryōga. "Back the way we came?"

Not quite. A left here, a right there—as long as the blasts of fireballs stayed behind them, it was the best direction to head.

THWAP!

But rats can't escape when the walls of the maze are built around them. Another tunnel filled solid.

"No good," said Akane. "We'll be boxed in before long."

"You're right." Hands by his side, Ryōga clenched his fists. "That's why I need to distract them."

" 'Distract'? You can't! I won't let you!"

"It _must_ be done, Akane-san! It's like I said—if it were me alone, I'd fight, but you're here, and as much I'd like to say otherwise, I can't be sure I'll protect you. But I _can_ draw them away."

Akane shuddered. It couldn't be, just for her, that he'd do this, that he'd even think of doing this. The calls of Sorcerers echoed through the mountain, and Akane just wanted to cover her ears and think. There had to be someway they'd both escape, but the means eluded her. The solution hid before her eyes.

"I know it's difficult, Akane-san." He held her hand between both of his own. He trembled, too, as his eyes glimmered with the speckle of tears. "There's something I've wanted to tell you—"

"I understand, Ryōga-kun."

He blushed. "I thought so. When you asked…well—"

The mountain shook. Dust settled from the ceiling, polluting the air.

"Then you know why I must do this."

"Ryōga-kun, wait—"

He charged to the tunnel junction. "Hey! Sorcerer bastards! I know you can hear me!"

A fireball sailed past.

"You want me dead? Come and take me!"

_Run after him, Akane. Run after him and don't let him go alone. Don't let him die for you, not like this, not after he tried to confess! You can't do that to a boy; you can't! _

But do it she did; she froze in that hallway, silent like the corpses she'd passed.

The booming and rattling sounds of battle faded, and then, only then, did she take off again.

Alone, all alone, she dashed with every ounce of speed her legs would muster. One by one her friends had left her: Cologne, Shampoo, and Mousse before the battle; Ukyō and Konatsu at the summit; and now Ryōga. If some Sorcerer ambushed her, she'd have to fight him off herself. Not with a spear, not with this torch that burned on its last embers—her bare hands would have to defend her. The skills she learned from her father, that she refined and honed in her mother's memory, to compete with boys, to compete with Ranma? Meaningless, and she knew it. She knew it the moment Wuya laid a hand on her. She should've died then. She lived only due to some mercy, some charity. Those skills wouldn't protect her now. Ryōga, gallant as ever—even he knew he couldn't protect her.

KA-PAM! Rock shattered, showering her back in pebbles.

_They followed me! _

Never was she a sprinter; her runs in the morning were long and arduous and worked the heart, but now she dashed with the speed and vigor of an Olympian. She banged into rock as she hit dead ends, but the blows of stone slowed her not. She rebounded, kicked off, and ran again.

Poof. And then the fire went out.

_No! _

Her footing wavered; she slipped! She tumbled. Banged and bruised, she rolled to her back, and fire foretold her demise—the fires they carried in the palms of their hands, fueled by ki magic.

The same fuel that would consume her life.

THWAP!

She flinched. _Wait…_ She felt her gut, her chest, her back. _That didn't hit me._

The light of Sorcerer's flame danced and wavered. A staff caught the flame; the source instead fell.

And there was something else in the tunnel, something that moved in shadow.

It drove spikes of ice into their hearts. It crushed their ribs with frozen fists. Where staves struck the floor, it hovered above. It was the demon of Sorcerer dreams, the monster of their nightmares.

The silencer of their screams.

Over their corpses, it panted; it breathed. It kicked the bodies and skewered them on ice. It picked up the burning staff, and by that light, Akane saw its face.

"Ranma?"

* * *

**Next:** With the Sorcerers at Saffron's chambers, the task falls to Ranma and Akane to intervene, but something is amiss with this new Sieve the Sorcerers seek. Will the new Sieve be taken, or can Ranma and Akane end the Sorcerer threat once and for all? The answer comes in the exciting conclusion to "The Battle of Phoenix Mountain" - "The Beast within the Human Heart" - Coming February 18, 2011.

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	41. Battle VIII: The Human Heart

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** Ranma and Akane are reunited. The Sorcerers stand at Saffron's door. The Battle of Phoenix Mountain ends today.

* * *

**The Beast within the Human Heart**

_Chapter Six Finale_

Under the mid-afternoon sun, the last drop of rain evaporated. Through a light westerly breeze, Amazon warriors scaled the sheer slopes of Mount Phoenix. They dragged themselves up with rope and hook. They leapt from house to house. They walked the slick stairs that spiraled to the summit and, scouring the mountain for any open path to the interior.

"Is the way clear?" asked their leader, eying a tunnel and the darkness within.

"No, elder," said one of her men. "We've yet to find a path through that isn't blocked."

"That's because you look in the wrong places!" From a platform above, three figures spied on the approaching force and waved to the elder who led it.

"Teacher!"

"This level will lead you inside," said Cologne. "But beyond that, be wary of our words. I suspect our minds aren't wholly our own."

"Did you see them? The Sorcerers?"

"Indeed. They've swarmed the mountain in great numbers. Come! I don't trust myself in battle, but perhaps together, we can reach Saffron in time."

#

"Ranma?"

He jerked; he flinched. He set the burning staff against the wall and watched her with guarded, cautious eyes.

"What did you see? Anything?"

"Everything," said Akane.

Ranma glanced out of the corner of his eye. A corpse lay sprawled by his ankles, blood seeping into the black cloth of a guardsman's tunic. The puddle expanded, touching the sole of his shoe, yet Ranma made no move to avoid it.

"I had to," he said, meeting her gaze. "I had no choice."

That's right. He met force with force proportionate. These Sorcerers would've shown Akane no mercy had they caught her. It was only fitting, only fair, that Ranma do the same. Not because it was best thing, but it was the only way they could survive. This was Ranma, after all. He was no murderer, no killer, however angry you made him.

Yet for all the soundness, all the reason in that argument, any words of encouragement Akane might've offered died on her lips instead.

"Are you yourself?" he asked.

"I, well…" She climbed to her feet, brushing off specks of dirt and debris. There was no way to be totally sure, was there? "I think so."

"That's good."

"Yeah."

He nodded. He let out a breath.

And his gaze hardened in a flash. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"What—" _Of all the things he had to say…_ "What am I doing here? What do you think?"

"I told you not to come!"

The words shot through her like darts, but always in their spats Akane had fought back, and she wasn't about to quit now. "And you thought I wouldn't?"

"I thought you might do something smart for once in your life, but no! Oh no, you had to get involved again, didn't you."

"I wasn't going to stay at that village sitting around while you were fighting! If you were in my place, you'd have come, too!"

"You're not me!"

"I know!"

As if he really needed to tell her. If she were him, Shampoo wouldn't have taken that spike to the leg. If she were him, Sorcerers wouldn't have captured her at Jusenkyō, and when Konatsu shattered her training spear, she'd have swept his feet when he left himself open. All these things Ranma could do, but that wasn't the most important difference between them.

If she were more like Ranma, she'd have told him she loved him before she asked him to say it, too.

Her gut clenched. A cold shiver took her, and she choked on the first sob.

"Hey, wait, don't…" He blinked, and the fire went out of his eyes. He waved hopelessly with his hands for a moment, as if unsure what to do, but the right instinct found him soon enough.

He took her into his arms and let her tears soak into his shirt.

"It's okay," he said. "Come on; don't cry."

She squeezed him tight, shaking.

"Please." His voice broke. "It hurts me when you cry."

A wave of relief and warmth passed through Akane. With a single breath, she held the tears in.

"I just want to ask you," he said, this time more gently. "What are you doing here?"

"You know why. Don't you?"

"Yeah. I think I do." He pulled away. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"I'm still…" He put a hand to his chest, pulling at the red fabric of his shirt. "You know, like this."

"That doesn't matter to me."

He scoffed. "Of course it does. You'd be a fool not to think about it. Come on, how many other guys are like me?"

"No one," said Akane. "No one at all."

His mouth hung open, but he shut it just as quickly, for his lips curled at the corners. It wasn't the cocky grin she'd come to know; it was better than that. It was that look of comfortable warmth that was the fount of joy in her life. When no one was there to mock him for it, Ranma could be a truly beautiful soul.

And she owed him something for that, a debt she should repay.

"Ranma," she said, "I'm the one who should be sorry."

"What's that?"

"What I said to you was wrong. It's not about whether you're a guy or girl at this moment or the next. I wanted to hear you say, well, what I thought you said, but I didn't deserve to hear it then. I don't deserve to hear it now, not until I say something myself. That's why…"

Ranma's eyes grew as big as saucers.

"Well, I mean, I already told everyone…"

And then, somehow, they got even bigger.

"Sheesh, would you stop looking at me like that?" said Akane, blushing. "You're making me nervous!"

He laughed to himself.

"What's so funny?"

"It's nothing, nothing!" he said, waving her off. "It's just, for a minute, I thought I should get some hot water and see if you weren't Keema in disguise again."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, your clothes don't fit."

"I don't think I could've packed enough to change that!"

"And your hair's all tangled and a mess."

"So sorry I can't be pretty for you at a time like this!" She wrung her hands. "Honestly, Ranma, I'm trying to tell you—"

He touched a finger to her lips, and all her irritation, her anger, melted away.

"All I was saying," he whispered with a sly smile, "is that even when you're roughed up like this, all tomboy-like, you're still…pretty cute."

He ran his finger past her ear, and the strands of hair fell over her reddened cheek.

"You're still—"

A twinge.

"Akane?"

He drew his hand back and held out the fingers. There was blood on the tips. Akane felt the back of her head, and sure enough, the broken skin bled freely.

"Strange," she said. "It must've broken open when I fell. I thought it'd healed by now…"

"Who did this to you?"

"It should be fine," said Akane, ripping a piece of her shirt to dab at the wound. "Don't worry—ah!"

"WHO DID THIS TO YOU?"

He clenched her wrists; his hands shook. His pupils went wide, and his whole body shuddered with each frenzied breath.

"Ranma…you're hurting me."

A look of horror passed over his face. His grip loosened. He glanced away.

"It was the girl," said Akane. "The captain…"

"That bitch…" With one hand still holding on to her, he dragged Akane along behind him. "Wuya, you'll pay for this!"

#

BANG! Twin slabs of iron crashed on the tunnel floor. Sparse rock gave way to a polished, decorative sheen. The bedchambers of Saffron glimmered in torchlight, welcoming even to its most reviled invaders, and the Sorcerers of the Guard stepped through boldly, without pause.

"You six, with us," said Kohl, pointing out his party. "Let us not underestimate the new Sieve."

"Captain," said another, one designated to stay behind, "there's something coming—"

"Handle it!"

"Yes, captain!"

Into the chamber the Sorcerers crept—the six of Kohl's subordinates secured the outer edges. Kohl himself and Tilaka made for the center.

A fire burned in a small, square pit. An exquisite bed of silken sheets lay well-made and pristine in the corner. The room was spacious yet empty, but for a wooden crib and the child that lay within.

"I don't understand," said Tilaka. "I thought Saffron was supposed to be here. Where is he?"

Kohl frowned. "The scrolls said something. To now, I hadn't given it much thought. 'He who leads the Phoenix people shall never die a true death.' " He peered over the edge of the crib, glimpsing the child.

And the mark of the Phoenix King that emblazoned the baby's forehead.

" 'When faced with death, his flames consume him until he is but an egg. From that shell, he hatches anew.' " Kohl fumed. "She knew. All this time, she knew well we could make no use of this!"

"I wouldn't be so concerned with that." Tilaka waved a hand before the baby Saffron. "Even a being of power reborn could be useful, maybe not now, but—"

"But when? How many weeks, months, years will we have to wait for him to mature? Who will protect the villagers from themselves until then? You? I don't accept that, Tilaka, and neither should you!"

Tilaka smiled. "That's not what I'm saying. You need to look without your eyes, captain. Look at the child."

A baby in a crib. A baby who kicked at his blankets as he slept.

"_Feel_ the child."

He closed his eyes, and the flows of ki whispered to him. Tilaka, his men—they were palpable. Even the stone and fire gave off a faint impression, a glow.

The child he felt, too, but the baby Saffron was more like the rock than Tilaka, like a chunk of inanimate stone. A living, breathing soul moves the flows of ki and is moved by them, yet this Saffron felt to Kohl like no Sorcerer—not even like the outsider who mocked him so well.

"I feel almost nothing from him. I feel nothing at all!"

Tilaka snapped a finger before the child, and a small ember shot back.

"I think his power comes from the body," said the Sieve. "Something neither taught nor learned through heeding the flows. Do you know what that means?"

The wooden rail of the crib snapped, the splinters jutting between Kohl's fingers. "This being can't be Sieve at all!"

"But if not this one, then who?"

Who?

There were two people at the spring ground that day. The outsider—she said it herself; she was there. She beat Saffron. And, so it seems, she killed him. She killed him, yet Kohl dismissed it. She was a proud outsider, someone boastful, someone he hated, someone he wouldn't admit had bested him in battle.

But she did.

She did, and she grew powerful. She grew powerful because she already knew ki well, in her own way, a way untrained and unrefined. She knew ki so well, she'd affected a village days away with her power—a power she'd begun to manifest in ways his people could understand and fear.

"Wuya!"

The men outside beat a retreat, and the person in the doorway ignored them.

Kohl gripped his battle staff. "It's you!"

THWAP-THWAP-THWAP! On three spikes three Sorcerers fell. The others charged at him, throwing lightning, dancing in flames, but Ranma met their blows, their magic, with powers of his own. He built square panels of ice to block and deflect, and when he needed them no more, he punched clear through with immeasurable speed.

"Tilaka," said Kohl, "we need her alive. Can you—"

The Sieve raised her hand, silencing the captain. She fixed her gaze on Ranma, approaching the site of battle with slow, pacing steps.

"You again?" said Ranma. "You're a lot more dangerous than you look!"

"And _you're_ more interesting than I first thought."

Snowflakes gathered at Ranma's fingertips. "Yeah, well, wish we could chat longer. Actually, no I don't!"

The spike launched!

CHING-CHING-CHING! It shattered in mid-air before Tilaka's palm. Fragments showered the floor.

The three other Sorcerers backed off, making way for the Sieve, who held Ranma's gaze without relent.

"You see, I've been looking for something," said Tilaka. "Something that touched me, affected me. At first, when I felt you, I thought you were just an outsider, that it was natural for you to feel different to me, but lately, we've met many from beyond the village. None of them felt like you."

Ranma lunged, but Tilaka caught his open fist, like a toddler snatching a cannonball from the air.

"You see, I can make people feel what I've felt myself—or what they've felt themselves, too. I know what the priests drilled into me, the tortures they wrought to make me accept, in my soul, the need to be Sieve. You? You've known pain everywhere, haven't you."

Needles pricked and poked at Ranma's skin. He groaned; he struggled. His shoes slid on the rock. He kicked at the ground for traction, yet the Sieve held him, immobilized, shooting raw pain into every pore and follicle.

"You know it in your body. I take it you've worked until every muscle, every joint burns, and then you get up and push on. You're that kind of person. I can tell that by feeling you. That pain is something you don't bother to hide. You know it's temporary; you feel it by choice. That's not what frightens you, is it?"

He gritted his teeth, he yanked! And his arm came free. He escaped one torment, and his resolve, his focus, surged within. He cupped his hand, and a staff of ice formed between his fingers. "Get out of my head, you freak!"

BAM! The ice staff cracked the floor, yet Tilaka sidestepped the blow. Over and over Ranma swung, and Tilaka backpedaled, ducked, stepped aside.

"I started to touch on it in the tower, didn't I, but you stopped me before I could get close. That's what I don't understand. I've borne many of the sinful longings of my brethren. I funnel their range into myself when they fish the river and let a trout get away. I take in their sadness and longing and cry whole nights to bear it, but I don't regret taking those energies from them. Why? Because I've been searching for something. That feeling, that emotion, that I could take and take and never feel full of."

"Shut up!" The staff slipped from his hand, breaking on the stone floor. "Stop talking!"

"Yet for you, it's painful, and you bury it further than anything else. You fear it, and it hurts you, too. Why?"

Because when he touched Akane and found blood on his fingers, his heart skipped a beat. He fixed on that image, the thought of Wuya striking her, beating her for information, and every _thud_ of the staff against her skull deadened him inside.

"Why do you avoid it?"

Because when he talked to her, he always did it wrong, always! It was like some gremlin possessed his tongue, and all the times he tried to explain himself, he'd insult her or she'd take offense. It happened before. It happened that day, outside Ucchan's, and were it anyone else, he'd blow it off, but not with her. She was the only one whose words could compel him to fly with a sicko. She was the only person who could wound him so deeply.

"Why do you fear it?"

Fear? Who wouldn't be afraid? To hold the one you love in your hands, her body small and fragile and dry, like a doll, and see the click ticking in her eyes—who wouldn't be afraid? How easy it was to be bold and courageous when losing wouldn't move you. When it could reduce you to tears or rip your soul from your body, leaving you a paralyzed shell, you should be afraid, but you needn't like it.

"Why do you bury it so?"

Because the seeds of something wonderful were fleeting and sparse. When he flew, those feelings flooded in, and he embraced them, but that didn't make it any less unnatural. That didn't make it easy. The warmth of a smile, a touch, a kiss—they last for a moment and only that. If they persist in the mind, the sensation is but a shadow, faint and transitory. It fades quickly with time, but pain? Pain lingers. That is the power the heart has over the body.

That was the power Akane had over him. She died there, on the slopes of the mountain above the spring ground, and he felt that power with every beat of his heart: the hollowness of it, the emptiness, the regret and despair.

"You have the thing I've been searching for," said Tilaka, "yet you seem not to want it. It stirs you…"

So it did; it stirred him. To hear his name from lips he thought dead, to feel her cling to him and gasp for a breath of life—it brought tears to his eyes, then and now. The elation of his soul came from a single source, a person who, if ripped from him, would take all his joy with her.

"And that's why you fear it."

The tears flowed freely, and like a prison, they froze him there, a prison of his mind as solid as ice.

"I think," said Tilaka, "it's your turn now, captain."

Kohl circled Ranma. He drew his dagger and wiped it down with poison, a paralytic to stop bears and horses from rampage. On this one foe, this outsider, however strong or proficient she may have become with ki, this drug would take effect, as it'd done before—

Flick, crack!

Tilaka stumbled, yelping. A round, flat stone rolled along the floor.

And in the doorway, Tendō Akane picked it up, cocking her arm back to strike again. "Ranma's not going anywhere with you," she said. "Never again, do you hear me?"

Kohl looked between them—Akane and Ranma, on the one hand, Tilaka and himself on the other. "Of course," he said. "I see now. It's not just her. It's both of you!"

"Save it!"

The stone zipped past Kohl's ear.

"Ranma!"

The pigtailed girl flinched. "Akane?"

"Behind you!"

Ranma peeked over his shoulder, spun on his heel, and kicked the knife from Kohl's hand. The blade skidded on the floor.

Ranma looked to the door. "I thought I told you to wait outside!"

"I did!"

"For two whole minutes!"

"Really," said Akane, "aren't you getting tired of telling me to stay behind?"

"I'd get less tired if you actually did it!"

Kohl drew his staff. "So it is, outsider. We fight."

"Yeah, well, I ain't so afraid of you," said Ranma. "I beat you before, remember?"

"You did not defeat—"

A line of snowflakes grew from Ranma's fingertips, but they weren't meant for Kohl. They connected Ranma to his target.

To Tilaka's chest.

In two steps, Kohl leapt, raising a shell of ice to protect him. The spikes hit!

CHING-CHING! Ice smashed against ice, and blunt force knocked Kohl back, into the lame Tilaka.

"Whoops," said Ranma. "Looks like I tried to sucker-punch you a little bit. Did that hurt?"

Supporting his weight with his staff, Kohl dragged himself to his feet. "Can you walk, Tilaka? Can you move?"

The Sieve nodded slowly, but labored movements betrayed the truth. Tilaka pulled herself along the floor, took a step on her good leg, and promptly tumbled when she limped on the other.

"I think you need to pay attention to your opponent, Wuya!"

Kohl gathered Tilaka in his arms and dove!

THWAP! The spike shot past, into the far wall.

"Believe me," said Kohl. "I'm paying great attention to you now." In a pounce, he closed on Ranma, swiping with his battle staff. One-on-one the combatants dueled. Ice-laden fists grazed Kohl's tunic. Iron counterweights blew out craters in the floor.

WHAM! A flat slab of ice slammed into Kohl's forehead.

TA-PAM! A burst of fire blinded Ranma, and Kohl thrust his foot into Ranma's gut.

"Ranma! I need help!" Across the room, Akane fled as lightning nipped at her heels. The three other Sorcerers who remained to secure the room pursued their unarmed foe, herding her toward a corner.

_No you don't! _ Akane pushed off the wall, changing direction.

Z-Z-ZAP! Sparks cut at the rock behind her. She pushed off once more, and this, she knew, was a situation she could handle—multiple foes all racing toward her. She'd seen that before.

WHAM! Her fist connected with jaw; a staff jiggled and jarred free.

"My turn!" Thud! She jabbed the metal tip between two ribs and kicked the lead Sorcerer into his brethren.

"You want to hurt Ranma? Well, I won't—" She punctuated her words with a swing of the staff. "I won't let you!"

Z-Z-ZAP! Sparks jolted her fingertips, and the staff flew out of her hands.

"Dammit!" Ranma ducked Kohl's strikes, watching Akane from the corner of his eyes. "We don't have time for this!" He raised a panel of ice, blocking the captain for a time. "Eat this, bastards! Mōko Takabisha!"

KA-PAM! A swath of the room exploded! The ki bolt rocketed the three Sorcerers through the wall, yet at the edge of the blast zone, Akane stood unharmed, peeking through her arms as she covered her face.

"Now who's distracted, outsider?"

He turned—

CRACK! A blunt, hard object smashed against his temple, ringing through his skull like the resonance of a church bell. Kohl had plated his staff in a film of ice, making the impact that much more deafening.

"All right," said Ranma, wobbling on his feet. "That does it!"

He jumped atop the captain, viciously clawing and scratching like a panther. In a pile they tussled, and Ranma, a sharp chunk of ice in hand, drew blood from his enemy, slicing Kohl on the shoulder.

"You think I'm going to forget what you did?" he said. "You've got blood on your hands, Wuya, and not just mine! For that—"

Ranma drove the handheld spike downward, but Kohl rolled free.

"Sit still and take it like a man, will you…"

Aside and distant from this scuffle, Akane stepped back. Ranma had told her to stay out of his way too many times before, and this time, she was willing to oblige. The other Sorcerers had yet to recover from the monstrous ki blast, and in truth, if she got in the middle of this fight, there was no telling if she'd distract Wuya enough to put her down…or end up inadvertently in Ranma's crosshairs instead. As talented and powerful as he was, he wouldn't be able to stop himself if she wandered into his sights, not at these speeds. His blows were fierce and blurred all vision. He was a juggernaut—in a body shorter than hers, no less! But Akane knew well enough where that power came from. Not from theory, not from technique or training.

No, it came from the blood on his fingers, Akane's blood, that moved him so. Maybe there were girls out there who'd think it charming and romantic that he fought so hard for her, but they'd be blind. They wouldn't be watching the battle Akane witnessed that afternoon. Wuya's staff caught him in the side, but he ignored it like a rhinoceros shrugs off an arrow. It meant nothing to him, and he still brought his sharpest weapons to bear.

_Even if I get in Ranma's way, I need to end this. If he gets hurt, he'll just keep going for my sake; I won't make him do that! _

But could she really intervene safely? Ranma was right to keep her away; she was fragile. She wasn't made of the same stuff as him. She was like the doll again, helpless to do anything but throw herself in the line of fire and take a fatal blow meant for him, and if it came to it again, she'd do it in a heartbeat, but she should be capable of more!

The combatants shuffled and danced about each other. They stepped over craters in the floor, irregularities in the rock…

And a single, rounded stone, that not so long ago had been Akane's weapon of choice.

_I _am_ capable of more._ She put her hand to her breastbone, as if to dull the sinking feeling in her chest. _I did it it already! They were going to take Ranma, and I stopped them! I gave Ranma a chance; I can do this! _ She shivered, doubling over. _So why am I shaking? Why do I feel…_

She looked up, and a pair of brown eyes stared back at her. The Sieve, Tilaka, lay prone under a table, staring at Akane with a gaze fixed and steady.

_Don't think you can affect me like that,_ she thought. _Not again! _

She forced her foot forward, then the other. She charged the table and raised her hand for a vicious chop!

"YAH!"

SMASH! The table shattered, but the Sieve rolled free.

"My," said Tilaka. "You're an interesting one, too."

"Ranma!" she yelled. "It's the boy!"

A fireball sailed over Ranma's head, burning just the longest free strand of hair. Ranma ducked and maneuvered, trying to shoot an ice spike around Kohl, but the Sorcerer captain elbowed him in the gut.

"Was before not enough for you?" Tilaka asked Akane. "If not, I can make you remember other things."

Fire, heat, steam. Moisture and warmth bathed Akane's skin. The place was dark, but below, she saw clearly. In the pool of hot water, tangled threads bout Ranma's hands, drawing him ever-closer to a giant, all-consuming egg.

That's when she saw the key, the golden metal switch to this overgrown faucet she stood on. She graped the ring at the top of it, and turned it with all her might!

CRACK!

And she burned! She screamed! An instant's agony stretched ever onward; the cells of her body split and popped, bursting with steam, and yet somehow, she still found the energy to cry out.

"RANMA!"

In the throes of her memory, Akane writhed on the ground, mere inches from the prone Tilaka.

"Akane!"

CRUNCH! His knee buckled; the metal staff tip cut across his thigh, but Ranma didn't care. He shoved Kohl back with an ice panel and set his sights on the Sieve.

THW-CHING!

A spike disintegrated halfway to its target.

"Dammit," he said, charging, "get away from her!"

WHAM! A wicked punch catapulted Tilaka, knocking him against the wall, but where the Sieve collapsed in a heap, dazed and bleeding from her nose, the Captain of the Guard rushed not her aid. Instead, Kohl extended his hand. He hummed to himself a set of tones—an octave, pure and melodious; a fifth, strong and resonant; and more. And when the music in his mind was finished, he returned to the root, holding it for but a moment. Though the music faded, its power to focus stayed with him. A blue tether formed from captain to Sieve. It was a bond between them, between him and Tilaka, a bond over which ki energy flowed.

The tethers spread, linking him to the bodies of his fallen comrades, for they too had energy, a power that'd yet to disperse.

"From the life force of the living and the dead, I channel magic in its purest form…"

He eyed his target, who rushed to Akane's side. Her breathing shallow, her face scrunched up in residual pain, Akane curled into a ball, weeping.

"Hey, hey, look at me; it's all right," Ranma told her, shaking her shoulder. "You're going to be okay. He can't hurt you again."

"Tilaka might not," said Kohl, "but I will. Magic beyond magic, power beyond day and night, come forth to my hand! Come forth and obliterate!"

Ranma turned but caught no glimpse of the captain. All that was there, before his eyes, was the glow of hot blue light.

TCH-CHEW! Raw ki energy focused on Ranma in a coherent column of force. It pinned him to the wall; it ate at the wall behind him!

CRUNCH! The wall gave out, and the beam kicked him into the tunnel. Bright, blinding, oppressive, it shoved his limbs against the rock, shattered his ice shields, and bored straight into his eyes.

The beam dissipated, and Saotome Ranma hit the ground with an audible _thump_.

Kohl crept through the hole in the chamber. He kicked the body to see if it'd resist and pressed fingers to his neck, to see if Ranma still lived.

"You made a mistake," said the captain. "You looked after her first. I made no mistake."

He glanced back, into the room, where a woozy Tilaka crawled into sight.

"Unlike you," Kohl went on, "as much as it hurt me to see Tilaka injured, I know where my priorities lie."

CRACK! Wood shattered over Kohl's head. He staggered; he turned, looking for his attacker.

"Maybe I shouldn't let you forget about me!" Akane swung Kohl's broken staff wildly, swiping at air.

A creeping frost overtook the tunnel floor, making it slick and slippery.

"I see I was wrong to say you should remove yourself from this matter."

Akane jabbed with the stick and tumbled, falling backward onto the rocks.

"It seems," said Kohl, yanking her up. "You may be just as important as she is." Kohl wrapped the crook of her elbow around Akane's need and squeezed. Thrashing for freedom, Akane's arms and feet bashed and battered Kohl, but in ten seconds flat, she fell silent, and Kohl released her to sleep on the floor.

"What now, Kohl?" asked the Sieve, nose bloodied, limping lamely through the hole.

"Prepare the fire," said the captain. "We're leaving with the new Sieve."

#

"Archers, take them down!"

In the dark tunnels of the mountain, Amazon arrows stuck in ice. Sorcerers froze the passage solid, and it was all the Amazons could to scatter from the expanding ice.

"They're content to delay us rather than fight," said Surma. "This bodes ill, I think."

"Yes," said Cologne. "Yes it does."

WHAM! She slammed her fist into the block, and a shockwave rippled through the crystal, cracking the ice into immeasurable small pieces. The chunks flooded the tunnel, gathering at the Amazons' feet.

"You must teach me this trick," said Surma.

"In time. They use this ice so frequently I had to adapt to it. Come!"

On and on they broke through the layers of ice meant to slow them down, but the Sorcerers' numbers grew thinner and thinner, until at last the Amazons found themselves before a battered iron door.

But though there were signs of battle, no bodies of Phoenix or Sorcerer kind did they see. There was only the baby Saffron, still asleep in his crib, and the smell of burning vision dust in the air.

_**Identity**_** 06 End**

* * *

That concludes "The Battle of Phoenix Mountain," and I hope all of you have found the plight of our friends from Nerima a compelling one thus far. I very much enjoyed writing this chapter, for as it happened, the battle turned out far grander in scope and power than I could've hoped. It is a feeling I could only best by having another installment of _Identity_ to present to you, but as it happens, like with this chapter from the last, that will take some time. I'm always working on this story (even when I'm not), and the next installments are the top priority for my writing.

For now, then, I can only make promises for what is to come—that what is to come is every bit as exciting and provocative as what you've read thus far. The conflict in China is indeed nearing its end, for _Identity_'s first book, _Tribe of the Ki Sorcerers_, concludes with its seventh chapter—"The March upon the Sorcerer's Den." Ranma's journey and adventures will continue after that, but chapter seven will mark the end of one distinct tale and the start of another.

So, I hope to see you all back when "The March" is ready. Perhaps, even, in the month of March, but we shall see.

Until next time,  
Muphrid

February 18, 2011

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	42. The March upon the Sorcerer's Den

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** The battle for Phoenix Mountain is over. The Sorcerers are gone. And they've taken their prize with them.

* * *

**The March upon the Sorcerer's Den**

_A chapter in six acts_

"Well now, the sleepless and lost rejoin us at last!"

Over a charred slab of iron, the remnant cut from an imposing double door, Konatsu, Ryōga, and Ukyō ducked their way into the remains of Saffron's secluded bedchambers. With an Amazon escort to protect them from the rear, the trio treaded carefully over rocky rubble and sprawled bodies—the only signs of the battle that must've ended before they arrived.

"Though I should say," continued Cologne, tapping Saffron's baby crib with her walking stick, "I'm rather surprised you're all still alive."

With a sigh, Ukyō leaned against a wall, resting. "I might like to sleep a little more after what that Sorcerer did to us."

"Indeed?" Cologne looked to Ryōga. "And you? I understand they found you buried five meters into solid rock?"

Ryōga brushed a pebble from his hair. "It seemed like a good idea at the time, to get away from those bastards."

"Well, confuse them you may have, but _escape_…" Cologne sniffed the air. "No, I think you owe your escape to something else."

"What's that?"

"Time."

Ryōga narrowed his eyes, scanning the room. "Well? What happened here? Where's Akane-san? Why isn't she here like we are?"

"Assuming she lived at all, who can say, but as to your first questions…" Cologne pointed out the dead Guardsmen. "The Sorcerers entered first, I think, having killed the Phoenix meant to protect Saffron. They cut through the door with magical flames, but something, someone, followed them in. He slew them with their own magic as best he could, yet if he were successful, he should be here."

"You're talking about Ranchan," said Ukyō. "Where is he? Where did he go?"

"There's a much better question to ask than that: why is child still asleep in his crib?"

The trio gathered around the pristine wooden frame. Sure enough, a child slept there, kicking at its blankets, but otherwise peaceful and at rest.

"That's Saffron?" asked Ukyō. "All this fighting just for a little brat?"

"I think not," said Cologne. "There are but a few possibilities. If Ranma is alive and defeated the Sorcerers, we should've found him by now, as we recovered all of you. He may be wounded or dead, but if so, we should've found his body, his corpse. No, I think Ranma wasn't entirely successful. For all the dead that we can see trail in his wake, there must've been others who survived. I know because we chased them through the tunnels, yet their numbers dwindled, as if to vanish in a puff of smoke. They performed their ritual—you all saw it, remember? They incanted a spell of summoning, except this time, they left. Tendō told us it must be a 'being of power' to become the Sorcerers' Sieve, did she not? Look at the destruction around you, children—the broken walls, the craters in the floor, the spikes that pin Sorcerer bodies to the rock itself."

"You're saying they took him instead?" demanded Ukyō. "They made off with Ranma and what, Akane-chan too?"

"Teacher!"

Elder Surma's entry saved Cologne some trouble. The Third Speaker ducked through the hole in the door, trotting quickly to Cologne's side.

"Well?" asked Cologne. "Has the Council settled the matter?"

"A party comes for us at once."

"Good."

"A party for what?" asked Ryōga.

"To care for the wounded," said Cologne, "and bury the dead. To set the course of the Tribe—a course which, I believe, leads inexorably west." With a wave of her hand, she beckoned them follow as she labored forward on her walking stick. "Come, children. Only in the clear spray of the waterfall will truth be revealed and Ranma freed. Make peace with whatever gods or spirits you believe in. The Tribe of Women Heroes makes war, and you ride with them."

* * *

The final chapter of _Identity_ book I, _Tribe of the Ki Sorcerers_, hits full stride this Friday, April 1 (yes, seriously), with act one of a six-part tale—"Reconstruction of Broken Dreams." And for update information and notes on each installment, check out my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com.


	43. The March I: Reconstruction of Dreams

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** In Saffron's bedchambers, the Sorcerers fought Ranma. He slew many, but they took him alive. They took him as a prisoner again, but this time, he's not just their route to the Sieve.

* * *

**Reconstruction of Broken Dreams**

_Chapter Seven, Act One_

"You are Sieve."

Through linked hands, a trio of hooded priests held Saotome Ranma in place. About the open fire pit they sat in a circle. Tiny sunshafts cut the darkness, poking through wooden planks that blocked the windows and lighting up the fine smoke.

The priests gripped Ranma's fingers, and sharp, brilliant jolts of electricity shot from their palms.

"You bear the energies the people cannot," said the head priest, across from him. "You bear them because you dull yourself to them. Dull yourself. That is the only relief you may feel."

Were it so simple a matter as that, Ranma would've done so the first time they grabbed his hands—minutes ago? Hours? Days? But for the moment, he stifled a groan instead, and the muscles of his forearms clenched, burning. Better to resist than give them the satisfaction, the feedback they needed to know their tortures had taken hold.

"You feel nothing, for you are nothing," the head priest went on. "You are the void."

Some void it was. Though the firelight was fickle and ever-changing, he knew this room well. It housed the Sieve before him, Tilaka, and for the Sieve, there should always be an audience. Up the stair by the window was an observation room, a place for Sorcerer dignitaries and leaders to study the Sieve from a safe distance. No doubt they were watching him now. Sindoor herself, even, might lurk in the shadow.

But with certainty he knew there were others. Though the veins in his wrists ached and throbbed, he focused on his surroundings. The Sorcerer Guard stood ready at the doorway—two on the inside, their staves crossed, and doubtless two more outside, just in case, for the breaking of the new Sieve demanded effort from the Guard and priesthood both. They'd come together for this grand party—the shattering of an outsider's soul.

"Release yourself from the bonds that tie you to the world," said the head priest, his voice gravely and sinister, "for you are the emptiness that soothes the chaos in our hearts."

_I'll show you chaos._

THWAP!

Their linked hands broken, the priests pulsed sparks into Ranma's fingers no longer. He skewered the leader on ice, driving him to the floor. The two remaining priests removed their hoods and scattered, making room for the Sorcerer Guard to confront Ranma instead, but as battle staves met Ranma's shell of frost—

WHAM! A ring of ice caught Ranma by the waist, pinning him against the back wall.

"Do not resist," said a voice from the observation deck. "Our punishment will be far worse."

Ranma laughed to himself. "So I was right—someone important was watching after all. Hello, Wuya. Nice to see you. You know, except I can't."

His taunt aside, the captain of the Guard refused to show herself, speaking only from the shadow of a window. "End your resistance," she said, "or face our wrath."

"Hah! Empty words. You can't kill me. I'm your Sieve, remember?"

"And you'd fight us with your bare hands if it came to that?"

"You bet I would!"

"That is unfortunate."

"Why?"

"The Sieve has no need for hands."

Ranma brought his fists together!

CHING-CHING! And two sharp ice cutters dug into the rock, the spots where his fingers had been.

"Behave yourself," said Wuya. "You know we'll get to her first."

Ranma snapped the ring of ice binding him, pulled his shirt taut, and sat, glaring into the black. As the Sorcerer Guard dragged the body of their leader to a corner, the two priests who remained closed the circle. They took Ranma's hands, and their jolts were like barbed wires tearing through his veins. Ranma bit his lip.

"The pain you feel is in the heart," said the second priest, whispering while her comrade hummed. "You can put it away if you choose to. You can feel nothing if you choose to. At that moment, the cares and worries of a thousand men will wash over you and fade into the black."

She squeezed, and his nerves cried for mercy. They burned like metal in a vat of acid.

"Bury it," said the priest. "Bury it all. Let the feeling drain from you, drain through an endless sink!"

Light! Brilliant arcs cast the room in a strobe. Ranma panted and heaved.

"Only you can end this misery…"

And truly it was misery, but not just for Ranma. While the priests, ever-dwindling, worked their magic on the chosen Sieve, an audience above observed Ranma's torment. The captain Wuya, of course, to maintain order and discipline, but there was another.

In the dark, Wuya kept her on a leash. Lengths of twine bound her hands. A tattered black rag they stuffed in her mouth. With a rope around her neck, she couldn't go far, fight back, or make a scene. But they _did_ want her there, for whatever sadistic reason.

And Akane was fine with that.

"Ga—" Ranma howled through clenched teeth, spasming, but he made no move to resist the priests' tortures, nor did Akane look away.

_It's a reflex,_ she thought. _Even you can't help it, Ranma. I know you must be trying, thinking, looking for some way out that'll save us both, but maybe there isn't one._

"AHH!" He shook; he panted. His breathing was ragged and distressed, but as one priest whispered more hate and filth into his ears, more nonsense, the other maintained his blasted hum.

_There's nothing to do but bear it and wait._

With a tug of her wrists, Akane ended her own penance for the day. Wuya noticed the signal, and at her command, the guards unbolted the iron door, leading her out.

"I don't blame you," said the captain, untying her gag. "It is difficult to watch."

Akane scraped her tongue over her teeth and spat, cleaning the stray fibers from her mouth. "You're making a mistake," she said. "I don't know what you think happened, but Ranma can't be this Sieve person you want him to be!"

"Saotome Ranma killed Saffron, didn't she?"

"Well, yes."

"She was there, at the spring ground, when it happened?"

"Of course! We all were."

Wuya stopped, turning, eying her sternly. "You were there, too?" She nodded to herself, pondering. "Of course. It's natural that you were. What happened after the Phoenix King fell?"

"I'd been turned into a doll by the Dragon Tap. Ranma needed the cold water to bring me back, but I was almost gone. I was weak. When Saffron died, Ranma broke the tap, and the cold water flowed out. It changed me back, but I couldn't move, couldn't speak. I felt dead, but I still heard him. He called to me. He told me he loved me. That's when I found the strength to open my eyes."

"Then there is no mistake." The captain tugged on her rope, pulling Akane along. "The magic Tilaka felt, the magic all my people sensed—it came from that moment. We need Saotome Ranma. Nothing you say will persuade me otherwise."

Akane huffed. These people were stubborn. They believed the most outrageous things. How could a few simple words from Ranma's heart mean he was their chosen one? It was true those words moved her, maybe even gave her strength when she thought she had no more, but some sort of vast magical power? Ranma was incapable of that!

Or at least he was. He had been. Back then, before he splattered more than one Sorcerer's blood on cold stone.

Could he have had that in him all this time?

"How did she escape to Mount Phoenix?" asked Wuya. "Who brought her there?"

The captain's cutting tone pierced Akane's reverie. "Ranma never said," she replied, "and even if he did, it sounds like I shouldn't tell you."

"She didn't find her own way through the Maze of Ki?"

"I don't know."

The captain eyed her. "So be it." She walked Akane to a cramped cell, a narrow space longer than it was wide, with a window barely larger than a pair of hands side-by-side. A single guard stood watch at the iron door, and for a bed, there was naught more than tattered blankets and a straw mat. This was Akane's home, or it had been, and she was no more thrilled to be here again than to watch Ranma's torture.

"You need not return if it makes you uncomfortable." The captain's knife sliced through Akane's bindings. "We could leave you here tomorrow if the spectacle is too much, if it turns your stomach."

And let Ranma suffer alone? "No, I'll go back. Maybe you people don't understand it, but where I come from, we stick by our friends."

"Think what you will of us," said Wuya, "I think I understand that just fine."

The door slammed shut. The captain was gone, and after a fashion, the vibrations in the metal slab died out.

_Damn these people! They're all cryptic and stubborn! _

BANG! She kicked on the door. A minor dent, hopefully one that wouldn't bother the locals and get her the kind of treatment Ranma was getting.

Though maybe that was what she deserved.

_No, no. I can't feel sorry for myself right now. Whatever I go through doesn't matter unless it helps Ranma. Just being able to relate isn't enough._ She sighed. _And all I told them was exactly what they thought._

If they couldn't be persuaded that Ranma wasn't who they wanted, then there could be only one course: to free him, to get him out before they scrambled his brain.

But it would help if she knew some way out herself. There she was, stuck in a cage, a space little bigger than a laundry room or a closet. Escape? She could hardly keep a clean bed while walking all over it.

_I could break this door down, but what good what that do? Everyone in the tower would know it._ She looked to the window. Doubtful she could even stick her neck through it. _I'd have to be a _lot_ thinner to climb out that way._

Dejected, she sat among the folds of the blanket.

"Ow!"

And while the floor beneath was hard and inhospitable, it usually wasn't bumpy or irregularly grained. Hiding in these blankets was no mere pea.

"What the…"

What deprived her of rest and comfort was a chunk of molded metal. It was thin shaft—from tip to tip, it was just shy of the breadth of her palm. On one end, the metal curved into a ring, and on the other, two rectangular pieces jutted out with notched edges.

_A skeleton key? _

Tied to the handle by thin string spun a note, a piece of parchment that bore a single character, one even an outsider would understand: _city_, _village_…

Akane shook her head. That didn't make sense. She was already in the village. Telling her that wouldn't help at all. Yet the five strokes of a pen were clear and unambiguous. The note spun, dangling as the string unwound, as if to show her meaning and then take it away.

_String…_

It was a piece of thin twine, braided from two yarns. Hand-made, Akane imagined. Not like home, where machines and factories might've had more to do with it. This was the product of a person's own labor. They'd use it in everything they could make. They'd sell it…

Akane snatched the paper, breaking the string. That's right—there was one other meaning for this character, one she hoped was the same on this side of the Sea of Japan as the other. Not just a city, not just a village, but anywhere people did business, anywhere they traded goods for coins or bread or, as it could be, a strand of braided red rope. Without a doubt, that was the meaning of the five penstrokes on the parchment. Not the village as a whole, but something within it, somewhere this key could lead her to, where the ally who sent her this message would surely be waiting.

_A marketplace._

#

With a hooded cloak to guard her face, Akane descended through the central stair of the tower. The cloth was dusty and frayed, but it would shield her identity, she hoped, for a time. Whoever her mysterious ally was, she'd have to thank him—he hid that cloak under the blankets, too, matching the colors to conceal it. He smuggled her a key and told off the guards somehow, for when Akane turned the lock of her cell door, the hall was empty; the man Wuya had spoken to on the way in had deserted his post.

But confident though she may be in having a friend in this village, Akane stepped cautiously. She kept her head down, looking up only to avoid bumping into a Sorcerer and drawing even more attention to herself. To her benefit, the Sorcerers of the Guard within the tower said little to stop her as she passed. They were on watch, after all, protecting channelers who hummed by their steamy, serene fountains. Yes, Akane knew this tower, in a way. Ranma had shown her, in their dreams that one night. That's why, though the stair continued downward, into the earth, she knew the exit to ground level when she came upon it, and she knew what she'd find when she stepped through.

The ashen throne of the Lady.

It sat vacant in her court, for Sindoor presided not over her officers, and for Akane, that was just as well. She trotted past the gray stone, and no one heeded her presence. They were busy, it seemed, with the affairs of the village—signing scrolls or sniffing new mixes of medicinal dust. Akane crept past them, into the daylight she'd been so long without.

She journeyed down the palace grounds, where Sorcerers of the Guard sparred and trained. She hiked up the cliffs by the waterfall, into the fine mist of the rapids' spray. So much of this village she knew by sight, yet she'd never laid eyes on it. That was Ranma's gift to her—a sense of familiarity, surety. The boldness to see things through, even when a passing glance from any Sorcerer might glimpse her unfamiliar face and raise alarm. She pressed on along the river until she found what she sought: a gravely avenue with covered stands and tents on each side, where villagers browsed for fruits or bartered for woodwork, for pottery…

For rope and string.

Calming herself, Akane stepped forward with sure but measured strides, lest a sign of haste give her away.

"Ooh?" At a stand down the way, a young boy spotted Akane, proffering a coil of red rope. He harangued Akane with a mixture of Chinese and hand gestures, the consummate example of a merchant at the bazaar.

But it would rather help if the customer knows the salesman's tongue. And rather than risk her freedom by speaking and revealing her nature, Akane pulled from her cloak's pocket the square piece of parchment, the note with _market_ written on one side.

"Oh!" the boy said immediately, whispering. "The other outsider. Yes, yes, we've been expecting you. Come!"

"So this _is_ the right place? I wasn't entirely sure, and I was expecting someone else…"

"Yes, my sister sent for you."

"Where is she?"

"Oh, she'll be here soon. Come!"

The boy threw a leather skin drape over the front of the stand—an analogue, Akane imagined, for a simple _closed_ sign—and invited Akane around the back, where they sat under cover, shielded from the gazes of suspicious neighbors.

"You stay right here," said the boy. "I'll make sure Sister is coming."

With that, Akane was alone. She took off her hood, brushing her hair free with her hand, and sat at the stool the boy left behind. Summoned by forces of opposition, here she was, ready to sit, to talk, to negotiate. This rope-maker and her friends—they'd done much to get her this far, but she also knew, from her dreams and memories, of Ranma's distrust of them. The rope-maker, however helpful she'd been, hadn't exactly been too friendly to him. She talked down to him like he was little more than a useful tool, and Ranma rightly didn't like that one bit.

_We don't have to like it. She's pulled enough strings to get me this far. If we can help each other, we have something to talk about._

"You're late." The rope-maker ducked under the leathery cover, brushing her short, black hair from her eyes.

"Says the person who's arriving after me," noted Akane.

"I had that note left in your bed at sunrise, but you were already gone. I'd hoped you'd come before I had to tend to other duties."

Akane shifted in her seat. "I was watching something. The captain invited me, and I accepted."

"The breaking of the Sieve."

Two nods Akane answered with, but there was more to be said than that. "You can help him, can't you? You can do something—"

"Are you close to him?"

"Pardon?"

"I meant exactly what I said. Are you close to him? Did you grow up together by a river or whatever it is you outsiders have beyond? Do you make children on nights when it's too cold to sleep alone?"

So much for allies that were less insufferable. "I don't see what that has to do with anything!"

The rope-maker narrowed her eyes. "I've met your friend before. I find him rude and coarse, but he fights well enough in battle. That's not what I'm interested in, though. I've seen that enough with my own eyes."

"What _are_ you so interested in, then, to bring me out here with a simple note scratched on a piece of paper?"

"I know how he fights with his hands. I want to know how he fights with his mind. Will he break? Will he give in to the torment the priests put him through? Or not?"

Akane balled her fists in her lap. "I really can't say. How should I know how long it will take?"

"You've met the Sieve from before? The one called Tilaka? I remember that time. He broke in less than a day. The Sieve before him helped, but in the end, he broke so fast because he was a believer, a servant of the Lady. Once he realized what he'd done, how he 'endangered' the village with his selfishness, he repented, and maybe that is why he lasted so long." The rope-maker scowled. "To think one could glimpse freedom of magic and turn away. It's like a blind man seeing the sun for the first time and choosing to live in darkness ever after. Ignorant. Stupid. Is your friend the same?"

"Not a chance!" said Akane. "Ranma doesn't believe in Sindoor's ways." Akane met the rope-maker's gaze. "And neither do you, I take it. How many of you are there?"

"That is not your concern."

"But it is! It is. You do have those people, don't you? They're the same people who smuggled this cloak and message to my cell. They're the ones who convinced the guard outside my door to take a walk and not look back. You're wondering how long Ranma will last. To do what—put something in motion? Make some sort of plan?"

The rope-maker scoffed. "Our plans are our own, not yours."

"I don't see why you should've gone to all the trouble to bring me here if you didn't want me for something."

"Time is all. I'd rather risk a few men being discovered in helping you than move before we're ready, before we know what we must do and how fast we must do it. The captain has guarded your friend in the utmost secrecy. A chosen few, her favorites. That is why I must know—is the new Sieve resisting? Is he fighting what those damned priests will do to him?"

Akane looked away, and the red spot in her memory—of Ranma slaying the priest and spilling his blood on the chamber walls—filled her vision.

"Absolutely he is," she said. "Every minute of every day."

"Then for once," said the rope-maker, "I'm glad he's as stubborn in the mind as he appeared." She raised the leather tarp at the back of the stand, letting daylight surge and flood in. "That's all. Go back before you're discovered. The less you're gone the better."

"That's it? You're just going to send me back with nothing, to wait while you and your people plan our escape?"

"Escape? Don't be absurd. Such an idea is fantasy."

Akane rose, staring the Sorcerer in the eye. "Then what is it you're planning? If not an escape, then what?"

The rope-maker flinched. "Ah, that is…"

" 'That is' what?"

"All I'm saying is that it's very dangerous for my people. There is a great risk of discovery. What can you offer to justify that?"

"Is that why you called me here? To tell me it's foolish?"

Frowning, the rope-maker dragged a coil of rope from under her stand, digging through the clay pot that was held in the center. "There is only one way I would accept the risk. The captain is attached to the old Sieve. She won't allow the new one to escape, no matter what lengths she must go to. To ensure your escape and the security of those who follow us, you must perform a task for me."

"Name your terms."

"When you visit the Sieve's chambers, you too are being punished. It's a special horror, meant for those closest to the Sieve to watch and be terrified. The captain accompanies you, doesn't she?" The rope-maker sneered. "A weak girl, a fool. She leads us to ruin, just as the Lady does."

"Just what is it you want me to do?"

Her hand in the jar, the rope-maker met Akane's gaze, and her face twisted with a sinister grin.

#

And it was a smile her target, the captain, could hardly share.

"Rise!" said Kohl. "Rise and heed my words."

Under the waterfall, a circle of Sorcerers left their collective kneel. They gathered in a damp, dark space by shimmering sunlight and an orange bonfire. The flames cast the captain in a warm, ethereal glow.

"In the name of the dead and the living, we gather here to honor all who serve the village, who serve the Sorcerer Guard."

From the captain's fist, a handful of vision dust fell into the fire, erupting in a burst of flame. The fireball illuminated the overhang, showing the truth: a team of Sorcerers took chisels to the rocky cavern, carving precise strokes into the stone.

"We etch the names of the dead into stone, so that we may look and remember. It is imperfect; it is temporary. The waters of the river that binds us, that gives us life, will eventually erode our markings and return them to smooth stone, just as the bodies of the fallen return to the earth, but for now, we come here and remember."

The mourners bowed their heads, and a puff of smoke burst from the fire once more.

"Go now," said Kohl. "Commune with them, with your brothers and sisters who've given the best of themselves. You may stay as long as you like."

And so, the circle broke. With the new Sieve unable to ease their burden, the families of the fallen Guardsmen showed their grief openly. They shuddered to breathe. They staggered on their feet as they touched the names of their brothers and sisters, the ones who served the Guard yet they never knew.

The ones who died to bring back a Sieve who was in their midst all along.

"You look dour, captain." Sweeping dirt over the fire, the lady Sindoor addressed Kohl. "Is there something that troubles you?"

Perhaps there should've been—in standing under the gushing waterfall and telling all these good people, good men and women who worked the earth in the Lady's name, that the names on this cavern wall had given their lives boldly, without hesitation, knowing what they fought for.

For all these people knew, their brothers and sisters died bringing Saffron back.

"One should worry not for the dead that are gone but for the living," said Sindoor. "The Sieve is in our hands now. If there is a mistake to avoid repeating, that will be in years, when this Sieve fails in his turn. I'm sure you will have learned by then."

Kohl huffed. "It would be best not to count sacks of grain before they're picked. A priest is dead, my lady. The outsider isn't broken yet."

"Then perhaps we should ponder something that _is_ effective."

_You really do care nothing for the dead._

"Let Sieve meet Sieve," Sindoor went on. "You said yourself that proved worthwhile, didn't you?"

Kohl stared.

"Or is there some reason you wish to protect him?"

Hah, protection. Were it that simple, Kohl would harbor no doubts. Nay, all the vast efforts he'd gone to, protecting Tilaka, sheltering his old friend from harm—they were wasted. Needless. The former Sieve was more than capable of protecting herself.

And, it seemed, of pursuing her own goals.

At the Lady's behest, Kohl journeyed up the tower that afternoon, and he needed no prodding to do it. He had words himself for Tilaka, and only when those were answered would he consider betraying an old friend.

Just as he himself felt betrayed over the names and faces of the dead.

Kohl found Tilaka not at the top of the tower, where she used to live. That chamber was for Ranma and the breaking ritual. Rather, Tilaka had taken up residence halfway up, on the western side, across from the lowest level of the great library. The room was sparse, drab even—there was a doorway, guarded by an iron slab with three locks. There were two small windows, showing the mountains that guarded the valley, and indeed, the old Sieve sat by them in a small wooden chair, one held together with straw and string.

"It's strange," said the girl before Kohl, the girl with cropped golden hair. "I grew so used to the view from up high. Those windows only looked east, toward the spring ground. I feel like this view is the same yet different. Not totally familiar, but not foreign, either."

The captain stood in the doorway, a hand on her battle staff.

"I like to think you would come here merely to visit," said Tilaka, her eyes still fixed on the view through the window, "but I know that isn't so. You're far too busy for that. You have something to say, yet you hesitate to say it. Why?"

Kohl stepped forward. "When you were taken to be Sieve, I knew, at the time, that there was nothing I could do to fight it, to stop it."

"There wasn't."

"There wasn't, yet still I wondered, in the days that followed, even months later, if I should've offered myself in your place. I didn't, and I thought I should've. For a long time, I thought I was a coward for not doing so. Even to just a few days ago, I justified it, thinking that the Lady had plans for me, was punishing me, in a way she saw fit, but that was delusion. That was a lie."

"You're troubled. I don't need to be Sieve to feel that, but—"

"Don't." Kohl held out his hand, warding her off. "Don't do that. Listen to what I say. The words themselves have meaning, more than whatever you think you feel in me."

"What I feel is very certain."

"Is it now." Kohl pulled up a stool, holding Tilaka still under his intense gaze. "Tell me: what did you feel when I brought the outsider to your chambers? Do you remember? She attacked you. She attacked you because you brought something out in her, didn't you."

"I don't understand what you're—"

"Did you know? Even then, did you suspect? All this time, we thought—_I_ thought—when she said _Saffron_ it had to be him. I blinded myself. Call it pride; call it stubbornness. Call it whatever you want. I ignored her power, but you? You can't have missed it. You absolutely knew what was in the room with you."

"It's unlike you to circle your prey before the kill," said Tilaka. "Come at me, captain. I'm ready for the strike."

"Dozens are dead, Tilaka. I'd bury their bodies if I could return to that place and recover them, but I can't. I know who has a share of blood on their hands. The Phoenix, the outsider. Even I had to slay a handful of my men, and in my own defense, I can't regret that. But you? Is their blood on your hands, too? Did you know Saotome Ranma could be Sieve and stayed quiet instead?"

Tilaka leaned forward, studying the captain's expression with child-like interest. She drummed her fingers on the rim of a circular table that lay between them.

"I did think it possible," she said.

Kohl snatched her wrist, squeezing. "Explain that. Carefully."

"Did you ever speak to the Sieve before me? No, I see you didn't. I don't think most did. She died, some years ago. Do you remember? She used to visit me. I think she stayed in this room, when I took over."

"She did. I never spoke to her, but I remember seeing her here. She was locked in from the outside." Kohl frowned. "She could never leave."

"Did you think something else would happen? That you, as captain and advisor, could have it any other way?" Tilaka nodded to herself, looking out the window once more. "I knew, sooner or later, I'd find myself in this room. That's why I had to search for that feeling while I could."

"At what cost? The lives of dozens? Hundreds? Or if you care nothing for them, look at me, then!" Kohl turned his wrist over, showing a black, scab-encrusted gash across the inside of his forearm. "That's just one injury the outsider gave me. Need I show you others?"

"You needn't show me more of that," said Tilaka, averting her eyes. "She nearly snapped my nose in two. I remember. I don't consider myself blameless. I believed in the supremacy of magic above all else. I was arrogant."

"That may be," said Kohl, "but I still don't understand what it is you thought to pursue, what could justify this madness!"

"I did what I was taught to do as Sieve: to seek out joy and happiness and take those feelings from others, except this time I could harvest it, bring it out slowly, as a farmer to her crop. I glimpsed those emotions in Saotome Ranma, but they were buried, hidden. I let the effort move forward, hoping they would come to the forefront, that the other would come—for like with you and me, the old Sieve had a partner, and so does Saotome Ranma. She watches over him now, exactly the way you used to watch over me. When Saotome Ranma broke into Saffron's chambers, I felt it strongly. I knew then, for the first time, with perfect clarity, but I did not revel in those feelings, Kohl. You have to know that. I did everything I could to disarm him, just as you asked."

"Then I ask one more thing," said Kohl. "Help us break the outsider. Work your magic to corrupt her, mind and soul."

"I could try. No, I'd _like_ to try, but I fear it."

"Why?"

"I was able to resist then, but now, I find that feeling…intoxicating. With the two of them so close, it takes me back to that day by the sacred spring. Such attachment is what must be destroyed to make a Sieve. It is why I can't go back to that—you know it too, or else you wouldn't have come to me."

So it was. No respite, no recourse, no solution. If Tilaka could provide no aid here, perhaps she was undeserving of his efforts from the start.

Kohl pushed back on the stool. "Goodbye, Tilaka."

"Ah, Kohl?"

He stopped at the exit.

"Please, don't lock the door."

With a nod, he inched the metal slab to within a hair's breadth of closure. It wasn't his job to be cruel, after all, but even this act of kindness struck him as too much.

_What have you become, Tilaka…? _ He shook his head. _What have I let you become? Someone who cares only for her own pleasure and nothing else? _ He frowned. _But that is the Sieve's duty, isn't it. To seek out pleasure and pain; to temper them in others._ He felt his wrist. _To let one's own scars dull them in one—_

His hand stopped.

_In oneself? _

He felt the skin, but it was smooth. He turned over his wrist. The flesh was pale in a line that cut across, lighter than the rest of his skin.

Light like a freshly-healed wound.

Knowing Kohl's uncertainty, his anger, Tilaka could've mentioned it. She could've pointed out how she was learning the magic of the priests, the ability to make and destroy flesh with a touch—if that was even the explanation at all—but she said nothing.

The deed was more important than earning Kohl's favor.

"Such attachment is what must be destroyed to make a Sieve," Tilaka had said, and in hindsight, Kohl acknowledged the truth of those words. They applied before; they could apply now.

So emboldened, the captain journeyed up the tower. At the tip of the spire, he waved off his guards and entered alone, into the darkened chambers of the Sieve.

"What do you want, Wuya?"

Impressive, Kohl had to admit. Ranma recognized him without looking. Was it the sound of his stride? Or did he actually sense his presence through the flows of ki?

"You stopped fighting."

"I like my hands."

"But you still resist. I sense it. The priests sense it. Your tongue says one thing, but your mind and soul say another."

"You expect me to just break down and let you mold me into your Sieve?"

Not at all, but after some measure of persuasion, maybe. "Tilaka told you the story, yes?" said Kohl. "How when she stood at the edge of the sacred spring, there was another who shared in that sinful moment? Had Tilaka failed to break, _he_ could've been chosen as Sieve instead. Perhaps he should've been."

"Your point?"

"Should your resistance prove too great, I think there is another—"

THWA-CHING! The broken shards of an ice spike showered the floor, and Kohl stood braced and ready with his arms crossed, a flat panel of frost to shield him.

"I see you comprehend," said the captain.

"You want to threaten Akane to my face, you'd better be prepared. I dare you—try to take my limbs from me. I think I'll draw some of your blood first. Count on it."

"I'm not asking for your limbs, only your mind. Her freedom, her safety, can't be assured without that."

Ranma spat in the fire, crossed his legs, and sat down again. "Whatever."

"Think about what I've told you. If you're reasonable, you know the only choice."

"Uh-huh. Right."

Kohl backed out of the Sieve's chambers, the panel of ice still blocking his body, and the heavy iron door slammed shut. Truly, despite the streak of stubborn irrationality within him, Ranma was a reasonable person. He would see the sense of things. Unless he thought to fight his way out, he would submit. He would break. He would rather try that than risk _her_.

From love, destruction.

Thus, it was with a tinge of pity that Kohl passed the cramped quarters of Akane's cell. He glimpsed her through the triple-barred window in her door, and as it happened, she was looking back. Their eyes met for a moment, but that second passed, and the captain was gone again. The captain was gone, yet Akane remained, sitting upright on her bed mat, and with the pair of watching eyes away from her, she rolled up her pant leg and pulled a small, leathery pouch from her sock. In exchange for her escape, her freedom, only one deed would do.

She opened the pouch, and out slipped a straw needle, sealed on the ends with a waxy film.

"When the captain takes you to watch the outsider next, the moment will come," the rope-maker had said. "The captain will be distracted. She won't be able to watch you. Hide this needle between your fingers, and when the moment is right, stab her hard to break the seal, and let the toxin claim her."

A simple murder; that's all it would take to free Ranma. Akane stared at the needle, the elegant simplicity of it, and hurriedly stuffed it back into its hiding place in her right sock. To her surprise, the thought did not trouble her. Compared to the shrill sounds of Ranma's screams or the blood he put on the chamber walls, the choice was easy. To thoughts of happy homecoming, Akane lay back, drifting to sleep, and indeed, her dreams were uninterrupted.

As long as she thought not of the rope-maker and her sinister grin.

* * *

**Next:** Though the party from Nerima prepares for battle, the Amazon elders have convened, and they're not so convinced that war is the only, or even best, answer. To stage Ranma's rescue, Shampoo, Cologne, and an old foe will have to convince them, even if it means deception. Even if it means murder. The journey to rescue Ranma from Sorcerer hands commences with "The March upon the Sorcerer's Den" Part II - "The Summit of Potsdam" - Coming April 8, 2011.

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	44. The March II: The Summit of Potsdam

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** The Council of Amazon Elders stands ready to dispatch their army and invade the Sorcerer village…if given reason beyond a mere foreign boy. And if it take deception and murder to do it, Cologne will give it to them.

* * *

**The Summit of Potsdam**

_Chapter Seven, Act Two_

" 'It is true we cannot be absolutely certain of Ranma's whereabouts, but the preponderance of evidence is clear.' "

From a fresh piece of unrolled parchment, Cologne read aloud. She held the ends flat on the back of a crate, lest the wet ink run or bleed. Hunching over her impromptu desk, she brought a candle to bear, squinting, and eyed the open end of her bearskin tent.

" 'Less sure is the fate of Tendō Akane, but I am equally convinced, despite the lack of cooperation from our former—' "

FLICK! An arrow ripped through the tent wall, sticking in the crate. The arrowhead lodged between Cologne's third and fourth fingers, just through the character she was about to read.

"Former Phoenix allies indeed," she muttered, breaking the arrow shaft in her fist. She waddled to the edge of the tent, and in the twilight of dusk, the bird-men soared above, lobbing arrows into the thick of the trees.

A Phoenix warrior shuddered, shot in the ribs. He tumbled from the sky, snapping branches on his way down. Snap! Snap! Thud.

And where their enemy fell, the Amazons surrounded him. They drew their bows and showered the sky in arrows, to take down more of his comrades. In the face of the storm, the handful of Phoenix people circled back, fleeing for their mountain home like the cowards they were.

"Deal what damage you can," Cologne said to herself, heading back inside. "And then run before you take too many casualties. How foolish."

Foolish, but annoying, if they kept up these hit-and-run flyovers at dusk, dawn, and all hours in between.

Wearily, Cologne returned to her writing and the marred piece of parchment the Phoenix left behind. She stared for a time, thinking how she could mend the damage—with a patch from an unused corner or a piece of beige tape, perhaps.

_But that would mend only the paper, not the words that sit on it._

She crumpled the parchment and tossed it aside. From a fresh roll, she cut a new sheet. She looked to the edge of the box, where a single, faded photograph of a teenage girl stuck in the cracks. Her hair was flowing and beautiful. She fished over a creek bed and beamed with a childish grin.

" 'To the vaunted Elders of the Council, I present this request,' " she began again. " 'That the Women Heroes and their men take arms and march on the village of the Sorcerers. This request I do not make lightly, but I believe it the wisest course—to protect ourselves, to protect our future, to protect our children who must come after, so that they won't be born into a world where the flow of magic on the wind is like an icy gale to take them.' "

#

"Please," said the old woman with the crooked nose, "allow my aged ears to hear you correctly. You propose an assault on the Sorcerers, on the very soil where hundreds—nay, thousands—of our brothers and sisters turned to ash and became lost in the wind?"

Speaker Bindi flicked her wrist, and her copy of Cologne's request fluttered, tumbling in the breeze.

"On such flimsy claims as these, no less!"

"My," said Cologne, leaning on her walking stick, "is it time for Speakers' rebuttal already?"

In the sparse woodlands outside Phoenix Mountain, the Council of Elders convened. In lieu of their traditional meeting place, the Speakers made their campfire alone. Two ribbon microphones, pieces worthy of Cronkite and Welles, relayed the proceedings to the Silent Nine back home by radio. One set served the three Speakers, who shared it equally. The other was for their witnesses—in this case, the long-removed Second Speaker, Cologne.

"Well, Third Speaker?" she asked. "Is my time over before it's finished, or may I continue to speak?"

"The First Speaker is admonished for interrupting," said Elder Surma, shooting Bindi a glance across the microphone. "Cologne, you may continue."

"Thank you. Elders of the Council, before you heed the First Speaker's word, know this: the Sorcerers we've faced are far weaker than the ones our history remembers. The bodies within Mount Phoenix and without attest to that. We've damaged them. They can be defeated. They can be killed, and without the tremendous advantage in numbers that such deeds would've demanded before. I believe, after this battle, the Sorcerers will be very much weakened. They still must commit forces to the spring ground. Their home defenses are thin, and to the illusion that protects their village, we have with us the ideal countermeasure—Hibiki Ryōga, whose talents allow him to navigate the maze with ease.

"That is the tactical side of things. If you need know the truth, then reality is this: I am without doubt that the Sorcerers now intend Saotome Ranma to be their Sieve. I've made the argument that Ranma is part of our tribe and that Shampoo has the right to pursue him with whoever may follow her. That argument I won't repeat, for even if you dismiss that out of hand, for the 'good of the tribe,' then consider what will happen if the Sorcerers take a Sieve. With that part of their quest over, they will be free to devote their efforts to other tasks. Ask yourselves—what do they want with the spring ground? What punishment will they wish to dole out to those who've interfered with them? Think who these people are. Twenty years of retribution we owe them. Let us not shy away from that now."

An impassioned speech, yet the Speakers were skeptical and unconvinced. "Oh yes," mused Bindi during her remarks, "now that we've interfered, our course is clear! We must inevitably destroy them before they turn their anger toward us?" She scoffed. "That is no course for survival."

Little support Cologne expected from the dogged peacemaker, but so too did the hawkish Speaker Thanaka express concern. "Weakened though the Sorcerers may be," he said, "what is your chief objective? The rescue of Saotome Ranma? How will you accomplish this with no knowledge of the village as it stands now? No, invasion for such a mission is a fool's errand. Raze the village to the ground, I say. That is what the people, what _I_, will support, but that isn't what you want, Cologne. Even Saotome Ranma is but a convenient pretext for what you really desire. That information will cost lives—lives lost in a meaningless, futile search for the long dead."

Even Surma, long Cologne's student and friend, had naught but measured words to meet her proposal. "No matter what is in the interest of our village, it isn't just for the Sorcerers to hold Saotome Ranma, to let them run freely if their capricious desires were to turn them against one of our kin. But we know not if Saotome is their prisoner. To prepare a war party, a fully-armed force as you ask it—such could be done, but it would also send a message: that we're not interested in coexistence. It would be a force to wipe them utterly from the earth. In our own defense, a justifiable act. In retribution alone, a reprehensible one."

A strike on each count, and Cologne returned to her bench retired. It was true—she never hoped to persuade Bindi, but for the bald eagle Thanaka to turn her proposal into an even fiercer recommendation, dooming her own? She would've laughed, were it amusing, but in truth, it left her cold. Surma's logic, too, was always impeccable.

Which meant that logic wouldn't help them in this matter, not at all.

"We go ourselves then."

Over watery soup and boiled carrots, the party from Nerima gathered under the midday sun, but while others sated their hunger, Shampoo left her bowl at the base of the rock she sat on, preferring to punctuate her point with her spoon instead.

"Elders no can stop us, can they? Shampoo still have power of Last Right. We go ourselves, save Ranma with anyone who follow. Brothers and sisters _will_ follow. They want Sorcerers beaten as much as Great-grandmother does."

"Against the Council's wishes, implicit or not, believe you me, child," said Cologne, "too few will follow."

"I thought you said the Council would listen to you," said Ryōga. "Don't tell me you went to them and got nothing out of it. I won't leave Akane-san to those sorcerous bastards, not a chance!"

"I said the Council had yet to make a decision, that I would present an argument. Indeed, the Council as a whole is yet to decide, but it takes no fool to realize where the Speakers' sentiments lie. There is little doubt the Nine will follow them."

"So if we can't go by ourselves," said Ukyō, curling her nose at the soup, "just what do you suggest? I'm with Ryōga on this. There's no chance in hell I leave Ranchan to them, either."

Cologne's brow furrowed in thought. "That would take an answer I as yet do not have."

Ukyō left her bowl on the ground. "Then let's get back at it. Come on, Konatsu, you and I are going training."

"Ah, but the soup, it's so delicious!" Konatsu's heels dug into the earth, even as Ukyō dragged him away. "You can't expect me to be ready to fight on such a full stomach! Please!"

"Three bowls of that swill? How could you even bring yourself to swallow it?"

"It's wonderful! It's better than what stepmother would give me back home."

"I thought my cooking would teach you what _real_ food tastes like!" Ukyō shook her head. "Never mind that. Come on now, you're going to teach me that many-body mirage technique thing. Do you know how much more money we'd rake in if I could do that?"

"But, but, that's not what it's for! The technique is sacred, passed down generation-to-generation!"

"Traditions are for breaking; why do you think I went to a boys' school?"

"But, but, the soup…"

Over Konatsu's hungry whimpers, the cook and her servant disappeared down the hill, and so too did the rest of the party adjourn. Ryōga went for a walk to clear his head, and Mousse was duty-bound to follow, lest the lost boy end up in a Bangladeshi curry house. Only Shampoo and Cologne stayed behind.

"Finish your soup," the matriarch admonished her kin. "It may be unappetizing, but strength will be needed, whether now or later."

Pouting, Shampoo picked up her bowl and sipped. "All it would take," she said in Chinese, "is one pathetic excuse. The people want war. With just one reason, good or bad, we can give it to them."

A childish way of thinking, a thought from a child's mind. Truly that was a simplistic notion—one cannot make a reason where none exists.

Cologne's spoon clinked in her bowl.

Then again, perhaps it was the most cunning idea the girl had ever dreamt up.

#

With the shadow of the mountain looming, patrol parties circled the camp—a scattered collection of tents and wagons where the Amazons counted the living, mended the wounded, and burned the dead. Here they remained, days after Cologne and Surma barged into the Phoenix King's bedroom, to recover from their battle scars and decide the next step. That the Phoenix took offense (and showed it with their twilight raids) was but a minor inconvenience, but that was no excuse to relax, to be any less vigilant. The warriors of the tribe trained to detect anything unusual, anything out of place: a scrap of bear hide when all the big game should be asleep for the winter, a grain of sand where no soft rock should be for miles around.

A two-foot tall elder trailed by a marksman in a black mask.

"Go about your business!" said Cologne, deflecting the passers-by and their stares. "Nothing to see!" She huffed to herself. "Honestly. You'd think people have never seen a someone walk by with a blanket wrapped around her face."

The marksman cocked her head.

"Don't you say a word."

With a single nod, the marksman armed her weapon: a wooden repeating crossbow, loaded from above with a ten-bolt magazine linked to the firing lever by brassy rods and washers, resistant to corrosion and rust—a simple, yet sophisticated, weapon for a _less_ civilized age, but that was precisely what made it useful now.

So armed, Cologne approached a large, square, green tent and addressed the two warriors who stood guard there. "Stand aside," said the matriarch. "The two of us have business with the prisoner."

"I'm sorry," said one of them. "Speaker Surma gave us explicit orders—"

"Not to leave me or my party alone with her? Yes, I'm aware." Cologne gestured to the marksman. "This one is safe. Hence, Elder Surma's orders are obeyed. Now, stand aside. I will notify you when we're finished."

The guards wouldn't budge.

"You know, Surma was my student some time ago. She values adaptive thinkers. And while she would appreciate your adherence to her orders, she would also be displeased if you didn't think for yourselves to see when those orders no longer apply."

Eying one another, the pair stepped away.

"Good." Cologne and her marksman entered through the gap, into a den of pure, sterilized air. It was the scent of alcohol and fresh gauze. It was a medical tent, yet there was only one patient housed within. Ropes tied her to a wooden post, binding her wrists and ankles behind her back. Bloodstains and dirt marred her shiny, regal uniform—a dress fit for royalty, for authority.

For a captain who served her king.

"I know that voice." With a weary gaze and folded, bloody wings, Keema eyed her guests and laughed. "That's Cologne, isn't it? Come to visit me? Come to mock the prize your people have taken?"

"Laugh not in my presence," said Cologne, dragging a crate to stand, to meet the Phoenix captain closer to her own height. "And think not you can bind me to your will, either."

The marksman raised her crossbow, a hand on the firing lever.

"You see?" said Cologne. "A weapon such as this stays taut by its own strength. Speak one fowl word, and my marksman here will have fired twice before you shut your mouth."

Keema sneered. "Is that what you've come to do—finish off a wounded bird? You should've saved yourselves the trouble before. I never asked your healers to snip off my frostbitten fingers. I never asked your people to break me from that block of ice."

"Oh, you wish you'd died, then?"

"Hardly." The captain sighed, hostility fading from her face. "I admit, I wanted to, for a time, when it seemed I'd failed everything my people expected of me." Her gaze hardened. "But Lord Saffron is alive! With his light, the tribe can always be reborn!"

Cologne drummed her fingers on her walking stick. "How touching."

"What is it you want from me? What purpose brings you here? Surely not to mock me, for if so…" Keema eyed the marksman and her black mask. "I might see how fast your crossbow fires, and if it will protect that one there from your wrath under my control."

"Calm yourself, dear captain. I come not to demean you, though I think I could stand to do that for some time."

"What then? You want my head? My wings to mount on your mantle? Spit it out, old woman. Make no mockery of me."

"Rest assured, I would relish such trophies, but I'm too old to walk the short path to such pleasures. I tread the longer trail—it is slower and more arduous, but I promise you, it is much more fulfilling. What I desire, Keema, what I need to make that path a bit lighter to walk, is something you've already given , something you'd hardly miss." She leaned in, squinting. "I want your word."

"My word?"

"Your word before the Council of Elders," said Cologne. "An account of what happened in the last moments of the Sorcerer retreat."

"I fail to see what that would accomplish. Can it free me from this pole?" She pulled and yanked on the post, but with no leverage to move it, the wooden shaft held in place. Her cheeks flushed, and sweat beaded on her brow. "Can it give me my strength back? I think not."

"Listen to me," said Cologne. "I'm not yet finished. All I want you to do is speak the truth—that, as they entombed you in ice to spend your final minutes, you saw the Sorcerers make preparations for their escape. They made fires. They burned their incense in the flames. They took Amazon warriors as prisoners and whisked them away on waves of ki, or whatever it is they call it."

"That's a lie!"

"It is no lie; it is merely a version of the truth, one that can't be substantiated but for your testimony."

"Hah! As if _I_ owe you favors. You want me to break my word? For you?"

"Like your word means so very much right now." Cologne narrowed her eyes, locking her gaze with the Phoenix captain's. "Listen carefully, Keema: do this for me, and arrangements can be made. The Council considers a trial for you, for the crimes you've committed against our people. Enslavement, espionage—I could go on. Do me this favor, and you'll be allowed to return to your people unpunished. Even your victims will forgive you."

" 'Forgiveness,' you say? You think I want forgiveness?"

She spat! And the wad of saliva splattered on Cologne's forehead.

"I would rather die than sully my name for you! Leave me! Leave me be, or hope your marksman is faster on the trigger than my tongue! I could have you ravage this camp before she fires a second shot."

With a blue handkerchief, Cologne wiped Keema's foul words from her face. A logical appeal had carried no weight with the wounded bird. What did this vile woman want with her life, then, if not to serve her people?

Quite a lot, to be sure. Logic was but one piece of human thinking, a method of persuading even the most hostile of audiences. When man forsakes reason, there are only two courses left: convince her of the right path through the authority you carry, the expertise you wield…

Or play on her emotions instead. Make him fear the consequences of he ignores you or whet her appetite for justice, for power.

For revenge.

Indeed, that would be the easy play, in part because Keema already knew it in her heart, but so too did Cologne.

"You'd like to see that, wouldn't you," said the Amazon. "To see me turn on my brothers and sisters? To see their blood seep into the ground?"

"After what your machinations did to my people, that would be the closest thing to justice I can conceive of."

"And the Sorcerers? Are they blameless in the matter, or would you like to see them fall, too?"

"You mean to suggest something?"

"I do," said Cologne. "I submit the only real vengeance for your tribe is an even mix of Amazon and Sorcerer blood, and that can only happen if my people are compelled to invade them. I will not pretend as other leaders might. To go to the Sorcerer village is to pave the way with blood. Perhaps my people will emerge victorious; perhaps theirs will instead. I can't say. But I _can_ guarantee the cost to both sides. Isn't that the justice you want?"

"Not for you!" said Keema. "Not in your service, not to further your ends!"

"Then what you want is complicated. With my goals thwarted, the two sides will sit, as they have for decades. And perhaps, just as your people recover from this tragedy, the spark of conflict will rise again."

Keema growled, turning away.

"You cannot have both," said Cologne. "So tell me plainly: what sates your need for vengeance more? An old woman's frustration? Or the blood of a thousand souls?"

After some minutes, Cologne emerged from the tent, for Keema gave her answer, and Cologne accepted it. The guards returned to their posts, and when the medical tent was far behind them, the marksman paused in her step.

"What is it?" asked Cologne. "Something troubles you, child?"

With the crossbow in one hand, the marksman pulled off her black mask. She ran her fingers through her dark, silky hair, pensive. "You think Keema really didn't know it was me?" asked Shampoo.

"Whether she did or didn't, she said nothing. It will have to do."

"It was risky."

"A risk with no alternative. Anyone else I could find with the skill to keep Keema in her sights would not have had the loyalty to keep quiet."

"But you would lie to the Council," said Shampoo, "like you told me not to?"

"What are you saying? Do you not want your beloved back in your arms? You would leave him to them?"

"Of course not! If only I had to do it, I could lie to the Elders."

Cologne studied her great-granddaughter's pensive expression. Sure enough, where Shampoo's hand fiddled in her pocket, the sparkle of red jade shone.

"Worry not—no one knows you were there, child," said Cologne. "This plan is mine, and the shame and dishonor for its failure I will bear alone if it comes to that. I've long been prepared to die for this."

"They would kill you?"

"No, I doubt that." Cologne grimaced. "But my words would be empty if I weren't prepared to sully my own name, too."

#

"They took six, by my count."

Captain Keema leaned over the microphone, but her iron shackles rattled on the table. Bandages covered the stumps on her right hand, where her ring and pinky fingers used to be, and a trio of bowmen held her under their arrows' sights, lest one wrong word escape her lips.

"Perhaps there were more elsewhere," she said, "but six I saw that day. There can be no mistake. They were not my warriors. They had neither wings nor the customary attire of my people."

In emergency session, the Council had reconvened to hear new evidence, one day after Cologne's proposal had been all but rejected. The cool morning breeze rustled the wood, yet the three Speakers had yet to be swayed by it.

Cologne stepped forward, speaking into the microphone. "Though I cannot fathom why they would take our people," she said, "can there really be any choice before the Council now? The Sorcerers can't be allowed to abduct our people with neither due nor just cause. This act demands a war party!"

"Is that the whole of your case, Cologne?" asked Surma.

"It is, Third Speaker."

"Are you quite certain?"

Cologne raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think it was protocol to ask twice."

"Then you submit for rebuttal," said Speaker Bindi, rising, "and rebuttal you shall have."

_Always one to announce your intentions so boldly,_ thought Cologne.

"This new evidence of yours," said Bindi, raising her nose. "It's intensely provocative, isn't it? Quite damning to the Sorcerers in our eyes, an act we cannot ignore. Hence I would hardly be surprised to hear of it from one of our kin, but from you, Phoenix captain Keema—what reason do you have to reveal it now?"

Keema's brow furrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Should we believe it is the goodness of your heart that has led you to speak out? The same altruism that compelled you to take control of three Amazons, including the woman whose petition you support now?"

"I had no reason to speak before," said Keema. "I had no incentive."

_Idiot! _

" 'Incentive'? What incentive?" Bindi leveled a slender, bony finger at Cologne. "This woman has no power to give you incentives! You are a prisoner of the Tribe!"

"I've merely persuaded the prisoner to speak in hope of leniency," said Cologne. "I assure the Council I've offered nothing improper, made no promise of favor, save for the support _I_ would give—that I would speak for her at the tribunal, should such be held."

"You would speak in her support?" asked Bindi.

"I would now."

"To defend this piece of winged trash? The one that so violated you and your kin?"

Apt words from Bindi, but Cologne stuck to her script. Short-term grudges served no long-term goals. "I would forgo vengeance against her in service of the greater good."

"Or to serve another vendetta."

"First Speaker," chided Surma.

"What? Do I not speak the truth? It is no secret what Cologne wants, and here the compelling 'evidence' falls untouched from the sky, masquerading as a gift from the gods!"

"Oh, do shut up, you hawk-nosed crone!" said Elder Thanaka. "You've always opposed any action against the Sorcerers!"

"Second Speaker, you talk out of turn!" said Surma.

But Cologne smiled to herself, despite the lack of decorum. One of her opponents had been placated. Now they would turn against each other.

"Hang me if I do!" said Thanaka, standing at the Speakers' bench. "We should take this opportunity; we cannot let it pass. Now, we have reason. Now, they are weakened. We should do as any just people would to protect its interests. Level the valley they sleep in; let them be no more."

"Be silent!" Elder Bindi's fist slammed on the table, knocking the microphone on its side. With a roar of feedback and electrical noise, the First Speaker stared down Keema. "You! You're the one who claims to have seen them. What did these people look like? Were they tall? Short? Light-skinned? Dark?"

Leave it to a stout adherent to peacemaking to fight so valiantly for her cause. Bindi's resolve grated on Cologne. "First Speaker, really—"

"I do not address you, and my remarks are yet concluded, _despite_ what the Second Speaker may say. Keema! Answer my question!"

"I didn't see the tone of their flesh," said the Phoenix captain, leaning into the microphone. "Indeed, you speak as if I could see more than their cloaks in the dark! Some were tall; others short. I saw not the whites of their eyes."

Bindi's gaze narrowed. "Then how should I know those men were truly Amazon—nay, how should I know if they even existed? You claim these men vanished; they must be accounted for. Third Speaker, you led the party. Tell us, who among your men is missing? Who, if any, did not return?"

Cologne gulped. Surma was nothing if not honest to a fault. So far, she'd been asked to remain silent, speaking only in her duty as arbiter of disputes, the Third's traditional role. When it came to her remarks, she could ignore Cologne's deception, and no one would assail her, but Bindi had asked Surma a question of fact. If she proved mistaken, it would bode ill for her future; no doubt the Nine would vote to remove her. If instead she proved duplicitous, actively deceiving the Council…

For that, no red choker of symbolic blood would be enough.

And that wasn't what teachers were meant to do. They should foster knowledge and understanding in the minds of children, not endanger them for personal gain—for an old woman's crusade.

"Bindi, your scrutiny is proving obstinate," said Cologne. "Do you not believe the eyes you see with? The ears that bring you my words? Even now, the wounded still—"

"I am not interested in your words!" shot Bindi. "I'm interested in truth. Surma! Speak to us. Tell the Council of your party and the phantoms who must be missing for Keema to have seen them!"

Speaker Surma met Cologne's gaze. She pursed her lips and answered simply, definitively.

"It is true," she said. "There are six men as yet unaccounted for."

_Oh no. No, Surma._

"I had thought them dead or buried under rubble," Surma explained, "but I concede the possibility they were taken instead."

The First Speaker stared, her mouth hanging open. Long had she been the raven of this Council, with her cutting gaze and piercing cries, but for the moment, she shut her beak and sat, utterly silenced. Surma, for her part, paid Bindi no heed. The Third Speaker's eyes fixed on Cologne, who—like Bindi—seemed at a loss for words.

_So it is, then. It seems I've taught you nothing. The business of politics is cutthroat, Surma, yet you always spoke your mind honestly and clearly, without regard to friend or foe. To walk that path is to forsake deception, for once your word is broken, you have nothing left of value. You should know that. No, you _do_ know it._ Cologne shook her head. _That can only make you a fool._

"Does that answer your question, First Speaker?" asked Surma.

Bindi nodded vaguely and sat at the table without a word.

"Does the Second Speaker have remarks?"

"I do not," said Thanaka with a satisfied smile.

"Nor do I," said Surma, "and with the Speakers' remarks concluded, the Council will close session to deliberate on this matter." Her eyes unwavering from Cologne, Surma flipped the switch at the base of the microphone, and with a crack of static, the transmission cut.

#

The days passed. The Phoenix skirmishes grew more infrequent and feeble until they stopped coming at all. Freed from the pest of Phoenix attacks, the Amazons focused their efforts on more than licking their wounds and beating the bends from their swords. They felled the trees for lumber and fashioned arrowheads from stone. There were great preparations to make.

"I know it is a difficult task I charge you with."

On the edge of the bustling campsite, Cologne met with a party of warriors, clinging to the trees for cover, for privacy.

"We gladly do what we must, elder," said one, the leader—a tall, agile creature with a piercing gaze like the hawk. "Whatever your instructions, we'll follow them."

"For your loyalty, I thank you, but you mustn't speak so boldly before you've heard my proposal." Cologne offered him a scroll. "This is the will of the Council. On that map, you should see a marked waterfall. Make camp at the cave there. It is sheltered, protected. There you will wait a week, maybe two. Only then may you return, and if the Council should ask where you've been, you will answer that you were stranded, that you never reached this relief camp. If you can do this, you and your families will be rewarded. I'll see to it myself. You understand?"

The party leader gaped, and his men whispered behind him. "Elder…"

"You tell me, warrior: do you not know men of ours who died in that mountain to Sorcerer hands?"

"Several. In the chase, they filled a tunnel solid with ice. They took my brother and one more with them. I saw it with my own eyes."

"That is why you were chosen for this deed," said Cologne. "That is why you _all_ were chosen. The truth alone would do your brother no justice. This way, our people have no choice in the matter but to seek retribution."

The leader took the scroll in hand, grasping it firmly. "I understand. I was never here."

"Good. Set out soon, but wait a moment. A boy with glasses will be by shortly with extra water and other supplies for you."

The leader leaned aside, looking past her. "Ah, Elder? Is someone waiting for you?"

Cologne looked back, and sure enough, the masked crossbowman waited a half-dozen paces behind.

"No one unexpected," said the matriarch. "Ancestors be with you, warriors." With respectful nods all around, Cologne left the warriors—their very existence was a pretext, after all, and Cologne treated them as such. As she approached Shampoo, she unfurled a second scroll, and spying the six circled names on the parchment, she crossed them off one-by-one.

"What now, Great-grandmother?" asked Shampoo.

"Fetch Mousse presently to supply these men. When he's finished, take a canteen from him; he should know which one. It will be lunch soon, so take the canteen, a ration, and this…" She handed Shampoo a folded piece of parchment. "I think you know who this goes to."

Shampoo eyed the characters on the outside of the note and nodded. "And you?" she asked.

From a brown pouch, Cologne poured a powder into her own canteen. "Deliver the message," she said. "I must sleep."

#

"Well, well, it seems a good word from a former elder can do wonders for one's accommodations after all." Massaging her wrists, Keema walked freely about her tent, greeting the masked marksman with a smug grin. "I think I put on quite the performance, don't you think?"

The marksman dropped a box of rations before her: a sparse meal of hard flour crackers and salted pork, with just the single canteen to wash it down.

"Oh, Cologne won't be joining us? Pity." Keema snapped a cracker in half, nonplussed. "Well, tell her I'll tolerate this treatment for now, but we have an arrangement, and I expect her to fulfill it." She undid the cap on the canteen and gulped. "Water and bread alone will hardly tide me over. She knows what I can make her do. Remind her of that, will you?"

With a nod, the marksman offered the folded message.

"Oh? What is this?" In the warm, stuffy confines of the tent, she sat down, wiping the sweat from her brow. She opened the note.

"What you feel right now, dear captain," it read, "is your throat beginning to swell and close."

She gasped; she choked. She extended her fingers, what fingers that remained, and they trembled mightily.

"You see, you may be indifferent to Surma's risk, but I am not. She was my student, and I taught her many times about the value of one's word, but nothing can prepare one completely for the trials of living."

Keema staggered to her feet, struggling for air. The note fluttered in her fingers, but she held on to it, glaring daggers at the marksman. The masked figure's aim wavered.

"All those teachings I've violated in the past day," read Cologne's note, "and were it only I, that would trifle me not. You could rule over your little mountain for all I cared. You could keep your hold on me. But in the end, if you ever grew dissatisfied with us, with me, you would have something more: the knowledge of the deal we struck, the secret deception I have used. You could use that to compel more than me to do your bidding. That I won't tolerate."

Trembling, Keema lunged across the room, but her body failed her, and she wallowed, helpless, clawing at the marksman's ankles.

"Your programming is powerful," the note went on. "I found I couldn't kill you with my own hand, but in my mind, I killed you a thousand times over. At last, I came up with the solution: that Mousse would make the poison, not knowing what it was for; that Shampoo would deliver it, not knowing what it was. And I? I would sleep, defeating your command never to hurt a Phoenix tribesman. My only regret is that I cannot witness your dying breath, but at least this way…"

The captain's eyes glazed over; her tremors ceased.

"…I'll never hear another foul word of yours again."

#

As healers and medics rushed inside to treat the prisoner, the masked marksman slipped out, the yellowed, dirty piece of parchment in hand. She tossed her mask aside, stowed the crossbow in a wooden crate, and made for the campfire where her Great-grandmother slept. With but a single nudge, Cologne's eyes fluttered open.

"Is it done?"

"It is."

Guiltily, Shampoo twitched. Cologne, too, snapped to her feet, for the voice belonged to neither of them. Elder Surma stood at a distance, her back to a tree trunk, hiding her partially from sight.

"I didn't ask you to do that."

"And I didn't ask you to lie for me," said Cologne, "but knowing you had, I couldn't let the only other person who knew it still breathe. You disapprove?"

"I do," the Elder said, addressing her teacher with neither disdain nor undue respect. "Vehemently."

"Then you should've let them find out and silence me. I wouldn't have blamed you. You didn't think a journey to their village was right."

"I still don't."

Cologne raised an eyebrow. "Then why?"

"Because I had faith in someone who taught me once." Surma shook her head. "Your wish is granted, Teacher. We march on the Sorcerers. I only pray that something good for our people will come of it."

"We will discover the fate of Ceruse and punish them."

"Yes." Surma laughed bitterly. "I'm sure you'll do just that, Teacher, but whether that serves the people or only you—I think you know the answer to that."

The elder Surma left her teacher there, in the camp where Keema died that day, and Cologne stood her ground, unwilling to follow. She took out the photo of Ceruse and held it to the light, so the sun's glare and the paper's shadow blocked out all the color, all the life in the ink that remained. Surma was right, of course: this war they'd fight served one girl's memory and no one else, but were it anyone else's granddaughter, they would do the same.

Of that, Cologne had no doubt.

* * *

**Next:** The Amazons arrive at the Sorcerer village, setting into motion the rope-maker's rebellion and hope for Ranma and Akane's escape. Book one of _Identity_ winds ever-closer to its end with "The March upon the Sorcerer's Den" Part III - "Collisions" - Coming April 15, 2011.

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	45. The March III: Collisions

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** The Amazons are on the march, racing to reach Ranma before he breaks.

* * *

**Collisions**

_Chapter Seven, Act Three_

Far from dark shadow of Mount Phoenix, a gentle rain fell. In calm night, the streetlamps sparkled, glowing with white and orange hues. The canals rose to accommodate the rainfall, but they surged not against their banks. It was a peaceful shower, a night to be home, cozy with the ones you love.

Yet Saotome Ranma looked to the outside wall of the Tendō home, unable to rest, to sleep. In fact, if his guess were right, he could be nothing but asleep already.

_Color me unimpressed, Wuya. Using this house, this room I've made my bed in for months, as what? A prison? A purgatory for me to think over my sins or whatever it is you want from me? Not real imaginative. Not real scary._

He lay on his side in the futon, alone but for a tiny orange nightlight on the far wall. Normally, his parents would be there, too. What was that supposed to mean? Abandonment? That hardly frightened Ranma. If this were truly a trick of the priests' and Wuya's making, it was pathetic and pointless, nothing more.

'_Bend to our will, or we'll make Akane the Sieve instead'? Fat chance. I won't be intimidated like this._ He made a fist, shaking it in the air. _You think I'm a little kid who's scared of the dark? Is that it, Wuya? _

A rustle, a noise, a shifting of blankets, of weight. "Honestly," said a weary voice, "what's this you're going on about at this time of night?"

It was a shape, a form, a presence. It was a person who, up to now, must've been completely still and hidden in shadow—his own shadow, for she lay beside him, where the nightlight's glow seldom reached.

"Akane?"

She curled up on her side of the futon, sliding her arm under her pillow. "What? You expected someone else sleeping next to you?"

Granted, it'd be a lie if he said he'd never awakened to a warm, supple female body beside him, but they usually had other ideas than to chide him for being noisy.

And they weren't usually Akane, either.

Warily, he eyed his…unexpected companion in bed, lest she detect his gaze and pound him for it. Granted, as far as he was concerned, _she_ was the one in bed with _him_, and logically, he shouldn't be blamed for that, but he'd been rightly punished for circumstantial evidence that made far less sense.

She wore a thin, silky nightgown with a pale yellow sheen. The straps over her shoulders were mere threads, if that. Each was tied in an elaborate bow, as if a knowledgeable pull on the right spot would undo it altogether. Her neck lay exposed, creamy and smooth. It was, in one sense, the perfect image for a man to wake up to.

And that was precisely why it wasn't real.

_So that's your game, Wuya. To think I'd be tempted by a girl in my bed? _ He laughed to himself. _She's a fake! What do you think? I'll touch her and let my guard down for her to stab me in the chest? I know better than that. I know—_

She rolled over, toward him, and let out a breath. Quite suddenly, Ranma knew well just how soft and thin Akane's nightgown was, as well as the warmth and feel of what lay underneath.

Her eyes opened. "Ranma."

"What?"

"I feel that."

He flinched. "Ah, well, that is, feel what?"

She tilted her head slightly, and her look betrayed neither amusement nor anger.

"I think you know what," she said.

"Oh, well, uh…that's a reflex! Honest. Just a reflex. It—"

"Ranma."

"It doesn't mean anything; it doesn't! I swear!"

"Ranma!"

"What?"

"You can stop now," she said, smiling to herself.

"Stop what?"

"Apologizing. I already have you figured out."

He paled. "You do?"

"Yeah." She narrowed her eyes, grinning. "You're scared."

"Am not!" He blinked. "Wait, scared of what?"

"It's not a crime, you know—being attracted to your wife."

'_Wife'? _

That's when he found it—a simple golden band, dangling from a chain around his neck. It was something that would stay with him, boy or girl, and remind him where his heart lay.

_No, this is wrong. This isn't real. This is—_

It was Akane's lips pressed against his own, but what started as a simple, almost chaste kiss lengthened and deepened, and though Ranma felt for Akane's shoulder, ready to push back against this image, this deceptive fantasy, he found he could do nothing but pull her closer instead. He drank in her scent, her taste, and relished her gentle touch.

And as he may have dreamed in reality, when they stopped, this Akane was neither wounded nor angered. She merely caught her breath, straightened her hair, and shot him a coy smile.

"Well," she said, "if you're so insistent on lying here in the dark, it seems only fair that I do my part."

"What's that?"

She giggled. "To help keep you up, silly. Just let me freshen up first, okay?"

Dazed, Ranma nodded absently. What game were these Sorcerers playing with him? Were they watching by a window, peeking through a door? No, that was silly; this room was his mind. They could look through the walls if they wanted, couldn't they?

The door to the room slid open. "I'll be right back," said Akane, "so don't get too anxious."

That was it. She was the key. Akane was their focus; where this maze of the mind went, it hinged on her.

"Akane!"

She turned, meeting his gaze innocently.

THWAP!

The spike shot out from Ranma's left. It speared Akane through her lower left ribcage and stuck in the hallway wall. Her body lurched like a piece of gelatin, absorbing what it could of the massive impact…

And tearing, breaking, bleeding where it couldn't.

"NO!"

Ranma caught her, cradled her, supported her weight as her legs failed. She gasped for air, but her breaths were shallow and quick. Her eyes snapped to him but for a moment.

"Ra—Ran…"

"No, don't! You've got to stay with me; you've got to fight, Akane!" He looked down both ends of the hall. "Hey! Mom, Pop, Uncle, somebody! We need help in here!"

"Why?" asked a voice. "Why should you expect help in this place? Why should you want it?"

From the center of the room behind Ranma, Wuya stepped forth, running her hand down the length of the ice spike—the spike that quivered with Akane's death tremors.

"Why should it matter—what happens to that thing," said Wuya. "It's not real, yet it affects you."

A line of frost grew from Ranma's fingertips. Propping up Akane's body with one arm, he shot with the other. THWA—

And there was nothing. Neither light nor dark, only gray. That's what he saw. What he felt—that was more palpable, more defined. Waves of head radiated from the ground. The earth gave wave beneath his feet in fine, smooth grains. Waves crashed and broke, but the water that made them gathered and receded.

His eyes cleared. In swimming shorts and sunglasses, he stood at the base of a white sand dune, a touch of saltwater splashing at his toes.

"Ranma!"

He snapped to attention, for a voice cried out over the calls of the gulls and idle chatter of tourists: she sloshed in the waves, floundering, splashing. In rough seas, only her head and outstretched hand reached over the crests.

"Ranma!" she yelled. "I need help!"

_Come on, no. She wouldn't be this stupid; she wouldn't! _

Logical or not, the disturbed wake of Akane's struggle washed toward the horizon. An unrelenting undertow took her further and further out to sea.

"Well?" said the Sorcerer captain. "Will you go to her? Or do you deaden yourself to these feelings?"

Ranma made a fist. _I'd rather try saving an illusion than listen to you! _ He dashed for the sea, kicking up sand. He splashed through the shallows and dove!

"Hands in the air!"

It was dim and cold. Blazing summer faded; the golden sun turned pale and white—the glow flickering fluorescent ceiling lamp. Scuffed, scratched tiles lined the floor, and Ranma and Akane clung with their backs to the edge of a shopping aisle, just a step and a turn away from the freezers for ice cream and popsicles.

"I said up! In the air!"

Goons with masks they were; Ranma watched their reflection in the freezer glass. Two unruly customers with sawed-off shotguns to pay for their groceries; they didn't mess around.

"We have to stop this," whispered Akane. "We can take them."

"I'll take care of it. You stay right here."

"No way!"

"You!" The gunmen spotted them. They approached from different aisles. "Out from there!" said one, waving the barrel of his shotgun. "Come out!"

"You want us to come out?" Akane called back, gripping the metal shelves. "Well, you asked for it!"

"No, Akane, don't!"

CRASH! The racks of detergent and dishwashing liquid buried the first shooter, pinning him under steel.

And it gave the second gunman, on the other side of the aisle, a suddenly clear shot.

"NO!"

BANG!

Ranma rushed the gunman and crushed the barrel in his hands, but the heated metal burned him. The shot had already gone off.

"Ranma," said a voice, "I need…help…"

The masked bandit tugged and pulled at the shotgun, but Ranma's grip yanked it free. The shooter fled, abandoning his accomplice, yet Ranma turned not to chase him, nor to watch Akane die again.

"It won't end," said Wuya, whose reflection taunted him from a security mirror. "It won't end until you accept it."

Ranma spun, and the world changed around him once more. A dozen environments Wuya and her priests could take him to, yet the end result would always be the same. They were deadly worlds, populated only with Akane's screams, and Ranma coped with them as best he could.

He shut his eyes to her suffering, for she was illusion.

And so was the growing pit of darkness within him.

#

Outside the tower, the dawn was only a shade lighter. The sun's glow nipped at the horizon. The village was quiet and at peace.

But the enemies at its gates were not. They woke from their tents and lit campfires, roasting nuts and berries in the flames. The Amazons dotted the eastern ridge, one half of the valley that sloped down to the Sorcerers' precious river, and truly, Cologne couldn't count their number. She stood beside her own deerskin shelter, a torch in hand, and scanned the horizon. All above and below her countrymen readied themselves for war, yet her old eyes kept their size and power of the People's army from her. It was a trivial matter—she knew well the length of the caravan that set out from Mount Phoenix. She'd seen it in daylight as they trekked across the open plateau. Nevertheless, though she hoped to watched them prepare on this fateful morning, age and time had taken that luxury away.

"I think we've all felt the passage of years," said the First Speaker, Bindi, as the dawn grew ever-closer. Under a square command tent, the Speakers and Cologne met as planners of the coming war. Bindi unfurled an aged, yellowed parchment on a wooden table and pinned the paper's corners with flat stones. "I must admit," she said, lighting an oil lamp, "I'd hoped not to return to this place, not under such times as these."

Around the table, the group of four studied the document—and old map it was of the village and river.

"We should consider our knowledge of the lower village particularly limited," said the First, circling the section below the waterfall in black ink. "Who can say what the Sorcerers rebuilt from that scar Bailu left on the world."

Cologne hopped on the table, studying the map and the First Speaker's notes. "You're quite helpful today," she said to Bindi.

"I would rather wish my brothers and sisters success, even if I don't agree with the cause. The Council has spoken based on the best knowledge it can obtain; I will not undermine it."

Cologne and Surma exchanged a glance.

"Whether I like it or not, my own kin are out there," said Bindi. "I would wager we all have family in this business. So let us all give our best to protect them."

Speaker Thanaka nodded. "Well said, First. We may make you see reason after all!"

Bindi glared. "Shall we continue?"

"What we seek," said Cologne, "is a tower of some kind. Tendō said that was where they kept their Sieve. I expect it to be their bastion, their fortress, the only place where prisoners should be kept."

"And you should look blindly for it?" asked Thanaka. "Didn't the girl tell you where it was? Didn't you ask?"

Cologne scoffed. "I hardly expected her to be taken! Much as some of you may think an invasion was my ultimate goal, my priorities at the time were far more pragmatic."

"Regarding the tower," said Surma, intervening, "is it not unusual that we've yet to sight it? Would their channelers really expend the effort to hide it?"

"Without a doubt," said Cologne. "These people have the mentality now to hide from sight, from detection, to conceal every hint of their presence in this world. They would not be so careless as to let an imposing spire stick out over horizon. It disappears in their 'maze,' too." Cologne took up a pen and drew a line from the ridge down to the river. "I would like to start here, north of the waterfall, and work our way downstream. Bindi is right—whatever lies south of the rocks is new ground for us. Important to survey, to be sure, but risky to start from. We could be surprised. I'll lead this scouting party, observe the tower and the lower village, and report back."

"Let it be, then, if there are no objections," said Bindi. She looked to the others, and there were none.

The minutes passed, and the skies brightened, shedding light on the full force of the invaders. Warriors strung their bows and sharpened swords. They wheeled and wound the ballistas, but indeed, the machines of war weren't the primary weapon for the Amazons. That honor belonged to something else.

Someone else.

He tore through the woods that shrouded the village, hacking his way clear with a pair of bandanas. When he emerged from the brush, an Amazon warrior offered him a coil of rope, which he politely, but firmly declined.

"No thanks," he said wearily, sitting against a rock. He rested his head on his knees and closed his eyes, taking a heavy breath. "I think I'm done for a moment."

"Time waits for no man," said Cologne, watching from up the ridge. "Not even you, Hibiki Ryōga."

"I have been up all night," he said calmly. "One length of rope through the Maze every five minutes, round-trip. I punched the stakes into the ground myself, over a hundred of them! I've been awake so long I could die! You don't think I can rest for _two whole minutes_?"

"I imagine that is fair."

Ryōga sighed. "Thank you!"

"But what the Sorcerers must be doing to Tendō Akane at this moment—I can't imagine that's very fair, either."

He shuddered. "All right," he said, "give me that." He snatched the coil, sprang to his feet, and dashed furiously into the woods once more.

And Cologne laughed to herself as the needles and weeds flew.

Ryōga's work for the Amazons concluded by true sunup, and with but a short break for him to catch his breath, he joined Cologne and the rest of their comrades from the Nerima party to follow a rope he himself had laid out hours before. Into the village and the valley of magic the group marched, just as warriors of past decades did.

Those were times Cologne remembered well. Back then, the Amazons approached from the south, the wider, open end of the valley, where the Sorcerers' farmlands were scattered and distant. This she knew, for Cologne rode with them—to oversee a deathstroke, then as now, the Speakers led their army, giving guidance and direction where the Council as a whole could not, and the Second Speaker in particular was an influential voice, accustomed to neither the overt power of the First's position, nor the finality of judgment of the Third. The Second was the middle ground, and it was a position Cologne wielded well. She drew up the battle plans in conjunction with their finest tacticians. She oversaw the invasion of the outskirts and saw to it that the farmers and their children weren't unduly harmed, that the crops went unpillaged and the women left pristine. Their army, their war, was a mission of purpose; heinous deeds shouldn't tarnish that goal.

But goals change, and so do people, so do villages. As daylight broke over the lands of the Sorcerers, the Nerima party penetrated the woods, and Cologne puzzled over the sight before her. Twenty years ago, they'd avoided the upper village, knowing it to be densely populated, bustling with activity—it was the home of scholars and scientists, who probed and investigated their arts with relentless abandon. Never mind this "tower" they should look for; there should be great monuments to the study of magic. There should be schools of mysticism and learning.

"This place," said Shampoo, equally perplexed. "There's almost nothing."

For such a once-great nation to be reduced to living in straw huts and eking out subsistence from the harsh, fruitless soil of the Plateau…

"Perhaps we're not the only ones with scars from the war," said Cologne.

Bound by ropes to stay together, the party headed south, into the cold morning mist of the waterfall. The tower, it seemed, lay not in the upper village, and Cologne felt confident her eyes did not deceive her. Nah, she suspected the shroud of fog that cloaked the lower valley from above—a fog that, though she and her party stood on the precipice, looking down, Cologne could not penetrate.

Not with an old crone's eyes and a spyglass, at any rate.

"It's dangerous," said Ukyō, "climbing down into fog like that. There's no way to know what's below it."

"But there is," said Cologne, opening a pouch, "if the fog isn't so ordinary. Mousse, if you please, a touch of fire?"

"You want the flamethrower?"

BONK! "No, I don't want the flamethrower! The situation requires something more discreet."

From his sleeve, Mousse produced a cigarette lighter. Shampoo and Ryōga broke off twigs and set them in a pile on the ground. Flames took hold; they swelled and grew.

"Yes, indeed, that will do," said Cologne. She opened the pouch and took out a handful dust, letting it slip through her fingers, into the fire. "Breathe in, all of you. I hope to not be the only one to see."

Sure enough, the clouds of fog dissipated, and the truth of the lower village was revealed. The black stone spire rose above the trees, piercing the southern sky. On the earthen rings at the base, the army of Sindoor sparred and trained, attacking and defending with the wooden staves they wielded.

"Holy gods!" Ukyō planted her spatula, wobbling on her feet. "What the hell is that stuff?"

"Can't you see?" said Konatsu. "It's rainbow dust. Look at all the pretty colors."

"Control yourselves," said Cologne. "What you sense are the flows of magic the Sorcerers tap into, a hundred times stronger than the unaided mind can detect. You should pay little heed to what you feel, however. To the untrained mind, the sensations be impossible to comprehend."

"I see eyes!" said Mousse.

Cologne twitched. "Were you not listening—"

"Hundreds of eyes, staring back at me!" he went on. "The horror!"

Shampoo shook her head. "What see worse than Mousse but Mousse on drug."

An easy conclusion—that one so blind would experience only the illusion of clarity when enlightened—but Cologne frowned, gazing through the waterfall mists. The dust had few overt effects on her; it wasn't her first time sampling this mixture, so she trusted her eyes. They were old, but they still saw the shapes of things, the forms of people, the motions of rabbits and squirrels in a shadowed wood, whether they ran from her arrows or stared at her, perfectly still.

As the Sorcerers on the tower grounds held their staves upright and eyed the waterfall, the cliffs, and the group of intruders who stood there.

"What is it?" asked Ryōga. "What's wrong?"

The earth rattled. The ground shook.

"This day, an old woman has made a mistake. As one needs light to see through the darkness, now we hold the beacons to draw monsters from the night to find us."

The rocky cliff by the river gave way, and the stones plummeted to the soil below.

#

A cloud of rubble rose from the waterfall, mixing with the fog and mist. Together, they shrouded the truth from view. Not to say Tendō Akane, from her narrow window near the top of the tower, could see much at all.

_Come on, what was that? _ She pressed her head against the wall, peering out the window obliquely, but the view of the waterfall was narrow and fleeting. The cloud of debris obscured what few lines of sight there were.

_But that wasn't normal,_ thought Akane. _That was nothing routine, no force of nature._

The rope-maker and her followers? Had they made a move already?

_No, it's not time yet._ Akane fingered the needle, sliding it up and down her sleeve. Just a scratch wouldn't do—the seal on the end had to be broken with sudden, penetrative force. That's what the rope-maker said: a bold, definitive act to cripple the Guard's authority at the top.

They wouldn't dare move against Sindoor without it. They wouldn't dare—

CLICK! The door squeaked on its hinges. The Sorcerer captain and her lieutenant marched into the room.

"Oh." Akane slid the needle up her sleeve, steeling herself. "Something you want to spoil my day?"

The lieutenant Xiu opened his hand, and sparks flew across his fingertips. "Yes," he said. "There's something we want, something you'll tell us now!"

Z-Z-ZAP! Bolts of lightning arced across the room. They flickered and crackled. They exploded in Akane's ears, popping like bombs on her eardrums. They streaked up her arms, leaving jagged burn lines from her wrists to her elbows.

But Akane bit her lip and bore the pulsing current. She held fast, her back against the wall, until the lieutenant's magic released her. When the world was darker and calmer, she staggered for a step, but that was all.

"Well?" she said, supporting her weight on the sill of the window. "What is it you came for? To shoot me with lightning for fun?"

"Speak plainly, or that won't be the last of it," said Xiu. "You went with the Riverfolk to the spring ground, didn't you?"

Akane looked to Wuya. "Of course I did. You know that's true."

"They breached the maze there. You broke through the protection the channelers give."

"I guess we did. Why? What's it matter to you now?"

"How did you do it?" asked Wuya.

Her eyes narrowing, Akane glanced out the window, watching the cloud of dust bloom.

"They're here, aren't they?" said Akane. "The Amazons—they've come, and you're afraid of them."

ZAP! A jolt blasted her shoulder, charring her clothes. Smoke rose from the impact, and a dull pain settled in, distant and foreign. The pain your mind tricks you into feeling when the body's true scars and wounds overtax any sane man's threshold for agony, for despair.

"Answer the captain's question," said Xiu. "Now!"

Weak on her feet, Akane slid down with her back to the wall, sitting gingerly. She took a breath. She felt under the burned clothes. The skin was hot, bumpy, and raw to the touch.

"Answer!"

She snapped to attention. Xiu she wouldn't look at—not with his small eyes and disdainful scowl—but Wuya was impassive as ever, neither taking pleasure in the torture she dished out nor showing compassion for a prisoner, an enemy.

"They used a ballista," said Akane. "A weapon, a piece of machinery. It fires arrows faster and further than a person ever could."

"We destroyed it," said Wuya. "They couldn't have come back unless they had another means of entry."

So that was it. Not the ballistas they were after. Not a thing but a man.

Like she should give him to them.

"They made another," said Akane. "That's what they told me. Overnight, they made as many as they can get wood and metal for, and your mirage was nothing against that. It was transparent, pointless."

"Liar!" said Xiu. "Insolent bitch!"

ZAP-ZAP-ZAP! Bolts stabbed at Akane. Their light passed through her eyelids, drilling into her mind. She covered her ears and screamed.

The light show ceased, and Akane slumped against the wall, but Xiu's fingertips still glowed with sparks.

"The point has been made, lieutenant," said Wuya.

"She's combative," said Xiu. "Defiant. I don't think she truly understands."

The captain snatched Xiu's wrist. The sparks fizzled out.

"That is my decision to make," said Wuya. "Not yours."

"This is no time to be soft!"

"Shut up!"

Xiu wrenched his hand away, pacing back to the door with a spiteful look. Wuya ignored him, approaching the window. She crouched to meet Akane's gaze.

"I think you know we've been fair to you," she said. "I've let you watch him as we work."

"That's torture," said Akane.

"Yet you choose to go back, every day. You've been treated well."

"Oh? Is that what you tell yourself? You practically cracked my skull open trying to find out about the eggs!"

"To protect my men!" snapped Wuya. "To protect and nothing else. To protect because life is precious. Now, tell us how they breached the Maze before, or there will be much more bloodshed. Is that what you want?"

Akane stared down the captain. She was right; the Amazons had come, but with only Ryōga and a handful of war machines to show them inside, could they really strike at the tower with any meaningful force?

Or would they need help from her, with an assault on the Sorcerer captain to lead the way?

Wuya snarled. "So you won't answer? All right. Xiu, continue!"

"Okay, wait!"

The captain's hand signaled Xiu to hold. Akane struggled to her feet, using the window as a support.

"It was Ryōga-kun," said Akane. "He told us everything—how his father had stories about a place like this one. He knew all about your maze the moment he saw it."

"I see," said Wuya. "The son of Hibiki…"

The corners of Akane's lips curled into a smug smile. "That's why we called all his family. His mother gets lost just like they do. His brother, his little sister, their aunts and uncles and cousins. And if Shampoo brought her people here, you can bet that every last person with a spot of Ryōga-kun's blood in their veins is walking through your Maze like it isn't even there."

"You lie!" said Xiu.

"Do I?" Akane kept her eyes on Wuya. Xiu was too far away to stop her, but Wuya might see. She might catch a glimpse of the wooden needle that crept out from Akane's sleeve, but despite the scent of opportunity, doubt loomed in Akane's mind.

_I can do it now, when no one's here to help me, not even the rope-maker girl, but that Xiu over there will help her. Maybe I'd get past him, or maybe…_ The burn on her shoulder tingled. _Maybe not._

"I've had enough of your false words!" Xiu stomped forward, palm sparking.

"Enough, lieutenant!"

"It's not enough until we know the truth!" He planted his feet, pulled back his fist, and shot with a shocking punch!

WHAM!

But the blow was Wuya's, not Xiu's, to deliver. The captain's fist landed squarely on Xiu's jaw. He stumbled sideways, catching himself on the wall.

"You would defend this outsider over one of your own?" he said.

"I exert my authority," said Wuya. "Those who disobey are punished. Even you."

Xiu narrowed his eyes. "Yes, of course. No one should threaten the captain's authority."

"Wait outside."

With a silent nod, the lieutenant rubbed his mouth clean of a trace of blood, storming out with his usual scowl.

"Thank you for that," said Akane.

"You thank me?" Wuya huffed, pacing to the door. "Don't. I protect the village first. If I find you've been lying, I won't need Xiu to torture you. I'll do it myself."

"Still, I can appreciate you've been fair." Akane followed lamely, clutching the needle between her fore- and middle fingers. She needed to be close, to strike quickly, before Wuya even suspected. "When you could afford to be, at least. You're protecting your people, like I'd protect mine."

"Yes…" The captain eyed Akane strangely. "When the luxury is there."

"So we _do_ understand each other." Akane pulled her fingers back, letting the capped end of the needle come clear of her knuckles.

"Captain?" Xiu poked his head into the doorway. "Aren't you finished dealing with that thing?"

Akane flinched. She pressed her hand to her side hiding the needle.

"Yes," said Wuya. "We are."

The door slammed. The lock clicked. And when the footsteps were faint and distant, Akane allowed herself to feel again.

_Good job, Akane. You just let her go. You waited too long, and she got away. But for Ranma's sake, I can't afford to hesitate. Not if there's a next time._

She flicked the needle between her fingers, a short, quick stabbing motion.

_Not again._

#

Boldly, the Sorcerers of the Guard ventured from the Lady's tower, charged with cleansing the village of interlopers. In pursuit of survivors who withstood their magic, withstood the collapse and fall of the cliff, the Guardsmen flew through a cloud of mist and dust. They shot bolts of lightning at the invaders' heels, and the earth itself trembled and shook as they soared above, but for this pursuit of a scouting party—what else could such a small number be? —the Captain of the Guard was disinterested, unconcerned.

_If the Riverfolk have come, if they brought numbers, an army…_

That was Akane's threat. A bold statement for one held captive, and Xiu, savage and disagreeable though he was, had likely been right in identifying her exaggerations, exposing the lie she wished to bluff them with, but when posturing and misinformation cloud the battlefield in fog, there's usually a kernel of truth hiding in the mist.

Thus, Kohl left Xiu to his brazen ferocity and watched his men harass and chase down the scouting party from afar. Ahead of the battle line, he soared low over the treetops and saw the truth of things. Akane had lied to him—Riverfolk archers, timid and cautious in their steps, clung to guide ropes to navigate the Maze, and when he flew over them, they fumbled for their quivers, unwilling to let go of their lifeline, their only way back home. Their shots were puny, weak, and meaningless. Kohl floated skyward, and the arrows bent to gravity, plummeting beneath him, to the earth.

Only then did he glimpse the eastern ridge with a keen, up-close perspective, with the view of a captain who stands on the precipice of battle. The archers and their kin trickled into the fray, and the column sprawled to the mountainside as far as the eye could see.

_Ants,_ he thought. _They're like ants—innumerable, they march as one to take what they want for their queen._

And in doing so, these Riverfolk would rip apart all that opposed them, given the chance.

_We are Sorcerers. We wield magic. We do not die so easily._

He cupped his hands, and the space above them ignited in two glowing spheres of flame. He hurled them at the forest canopy, lighting an old juniper at the tip of its branches. With gusts of wind, he fanned the flames, spreading the smoke and fire across the tree line. From the waterfall to a mile north, he burned the eastern wood. A bold, conclusive gesture—that to attack the village of Sorcerers was to walk through the flames of Hell itself, but against a determined, reckless foe, Kohl knew it wouldn't be enough. He left the battlefield, seeking counsel from the woman best able to give it.

#

"My lady!"

In her quiet meditation chambers, Sindoor furrowed her brow. The shallow pool of water rippled, from Kohl's voice, from the rattling of the door…

"My lady, do you hear me?"

"I do, captain," she said. "But you needn't speak so loudly. Have you not dispatched of the Riverfolk party?"

"It is not a mere party that comes to us. The Riverfolk bring an army—a force as great in numbers perhaps as the village itself!"

"You endeavor to sound dire," said the Lady. "This village is a sanctuary, Kohl. It is protected. Safe."

"Is it? When the Riverfolk can breach the Maze at will, are we safe? They have with them the son of Hibiki!"

"You suggest a course?"

"I do. The forest burns; you can smell the smoke yourself if you leave these chambers. Those flames will keep them at bay, but not for long. We should venture from the village and strike at them. We should attack from the safety of the Maze and drive them back."

"No."

"No?"

"The Sieve is ours. The task of his retrieval is done. It is not our way to be aggressors, captain. We should defend our lands and nothing more."

"Is that why we continue to hold the spring ground?"

Sindoor met his gaze. "That is different."

"It isn't! Were those men home, we would be stronger, but we aren't! We haven't the luxury to sit back!"

"I forbid any offensive," said Sindoor. "That is fact. When you return to the field of battle, have your men hold the line. I know you wish to be proactive, captain, but you must remain steady. Your selfless instincts to defend our people can be corrupted. Don't let those good intentions blossom into something more dangerous than the Riverfolk at our door."

_More dangerous than…? _

"Go now, Kohl." She passed her hand over the small square pit before her, and it came to life with flames. "Defend the village. Defend the Sieve. Leave me be."

That was the Lady's way—she perpetuated her own mystery, and her priorities were her own. To stay one's hand as the enemy sets foot on the threshold? Who would do such a thing and sit peacefully, making fire in a pit to think and ponder?

He stopped mid-stride on the tower stair. In all the years he'd known her, years since Tilaka tempted him and the Lady took Kohl under her wing, it was the first time he'd seen her use magic at all.

But this question he let not distract him. He had duties to perform. The new Sieve should be protected. As long as they kept Ranma out of enemy hands, he would become Sieve. That Kohl knew, for from the observation balcony, he watched Ranma sleep and struggle, fighting from within his own mind. He would escape that prison as Sieve…or go mad from it.

"What is this? Let go of me! Let go!" Pulling against her guards, Tendō Akane kicked and struggled to free herself, but the Sorcerers maintained their grip.

"You two down there," said Kohl to his men, "Bar the door, reinforce it with ice and melted metal. This room will be a fortress. Let no one breach it who doesn't serve the Lady."

"What's the meaning of this?" said Akane, yanking her arms free. "What are you trying to do?"

"Protecting our Sieve from them," said Kohl. "Nothing more."

"So I was right. The Amazons _are_ coming, and they're going to take Ranma back—"

WHAM! Kohl's staff clocked her across the cheek.

"You lied," he said.

Pressing a hand to the wound, Akane glared daggers back at him. "Yeah? What did you expect?"

"Nothing." He looked to his men. "Bind her. Tie her up and put her to sleep. I don't want her yelling to distract—"

"Reporting as ordered, captain!"

Kohl blinked. Two more of his subordinates stood in the doorway, standing at attention.

"What is this? Who ordered you here?"

"The message bore your signature," said one.

"I did not send it. You should be with Xiu; we need every man on the line—"

Kick, stab! A mass plunged into Kohl's back. He felt around his side for the shaft, the stick, the wood of a tapered needle.

"Surprised?" said Akane. "Well, what _did_ you expect?"

WHACK! The newcomers swept Kohl's legs out from under him. He tumbled to the floor. The light of the doorway in the dark warped and blurred.

THWAP, THWAP!

But the sounds of ice spikes impaling his loyal men were unmistakable. Kohl pulled against his own body, but the needle paralyzed him, froze him in place, able to see but not to move or fight back. He coughed. He gagged, and as the traitors slaughtered the priests and other Guardsmen below, he could do nothing but lay there and watch.

"Good," said a voice with footsteps approaching. "You've held up your end of the bargain."

"You?" said Akane. "You're with that girl? The rope-maker?"

"That's right." Into the observation balcony stepped a familiar, scowling face. "Your people topple the Lady, and we'll get the both of you out. This is the end of the dynasty of Sindoor, of the Sieve…"

Sneering, the speaker spat, and the wad splashed on Kohl's forehead.

"And this fool of a captain," said Xiu.

* * *

**Next:** With their captain wounded and the village in disarray, Sindoor's Sorcerers face rebels within and a bold enemy without. The push for the Lady's tower continues in "The March upon the Sorcerer's Den" Part IV - "Patchwork Stitched from the Threads of Fate" - Coming April 22, 2011.

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	46. The March IV: The Threads of Fate

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** The Sorcerer rebels have struck, claiming the captain as first casualty. Now, they hope to escape with Ranma and bring Sindoor's kingdom down.

* * *

**Patchwork Stitched from the Threads of Fate**

_Chapter Seven, Act Four_

As smoke billowed from the burning forest, the Sorcerers of the Guard waited for their captain, for their lieutenant, yet neither came. Without leaders to instruct them, to head an offensive charge or conjure a destructive spell, they waited below the waterfall, fanning out in a line. They would catch the Riverfolk if they should flee the flames and enter the village, but without a leader to command them through the woods, they waited on their perimeter, standing watch. For those who served their lady loyally, that was all they could do.

Not all who stood on the line were so compliant or obeyed without question, however. Indeed, a select few braved the fires. They shielded themselves in spheres of water and shed the steam when the heat grew too much, but they weren't the only ones to fight the flames.

"Shoot! That way!"

Surrounded by fire, the Nerima party battled against smoke and embers with what little they had. They covered their mouths and noses with cloth. They punched and kicked at the woods as if the trees themselves were enemies. From Mousse's sleeves, twin jets of water sprayed the woods with the force of fire hoses, but after a fashion, the streams sputtered, losing pressure.

"I'm sorry!" he said. "I'm out!"

The others stared.

"What?" he said. "Is that so unusual?"

"Here we thought you had something useful in there for a change," said Ukyō.

"Do you _really_ think I can carry more two swimming pools worth of water up my sleeve, Kuonji?"

Ukyō frowned.

"…and have room for other things?" asked Mousse.

"Sorcerer!" cried Cologne. "Down!"

SPLASH! A globe of water extinguished the flames around them, scattering and dripping off the tree branches. Where Mousse and Shampoo had stood, only a cat and duck remained while Ryōga took shelter under his umbrella.

"There!" said Cologne, pointing her stick. "Attack!"

"No! Stay your arms, please!" Emerging into the safe spot, the Sorcerer girl raised her open hands. "I bring a message, nothing more!"

From the duck's wings, a set of blades stuck out. The cat growled, and the others encircled the Sorcerer, poised to strike.

"Please," she said. "If I wanted you dead, I'd have left you to the smoke and fire. Hear me. There are those of us who do not serve the Lady, who wish freedom from the Sieve's control and welcome you."

"So be it," said Cologne, motioning to her comrades. "You may speak your piece, but that doesn't mean you betray the enemy. You will have to prove such allegiance."

The Sorcerer undid a length of her belt. The outside was black and plain, but the inside, she showed, was a pure and bold red.

"This strand symbolizes the chains of ki that bind us to the Sieve," she said. "It is a tie we hope to sever one day, but for now, it is our rallying cry. We are everywhere within the people. We are within the Guard. Most of us are, for we seek to embrace the magic the Lady would keep from us. We don't wish Saotome Ranma to become the Sieve anymore than you do."

"What is your purpose?" asked Cologne.

"The Lady sends her Guardsmen to destroy you. For now, they are confused, without orders, but that will soon change when the Lady hears of it. You must flee this place."

"We do not leave without Saotome Ranma."

"I don't mean a full retreat. You must go south. I can guide you or only point the way. It is a place the Guard will hesitate to attack."

"And what place is that?"

The Sorcerer touched a hand to her harm, relishing the sensation, the feeling that it was real.

"The only place the Lady holds sacred," she said. "The spring that took the bodies we were born with, the bodies we seek to return to."

#

And so, the Amazons gathered. They descended from the slope to the east. They blew no horns of battle, beat no drums of victory, for speed and surprise were their weapons. To announce their intentions served nothing.

But the Lady felt them, all the same. She sensed the coming of battle, for the flows of ki spoke to her, whispered to her. They mumbled incessantly, like gnats buzzing about her ears. The noise is worth listening to, from time to time, so one knows where to clap and swat at the pests, but that doesn't lessen the need, the yearning, for quiet.

Yearning for quiet, Sindoor doused her fire. She shut herself into her meditation chambers, for the wind screamed at her with hints and traces of feelings that shouldn't be. They were but a jumble, a tangled mass of threads and fibers. A puzzle of yarn for children to unravel. Such riddles didn't interest her. So what if the Amazons moved. They were nothing. So _what_ if the captain felt pain. Pain is ubiquitous, ever-present. It can't be countered or ignored, only dealt with. Those whispers, those ripples, Sindoor could ignore. She dismissed them. They were others' problems, others' duties to perform, for when she used magic, however sparingly, it came at great cost: it broke her from tranquility, from the journey toward perfection.

Those who dare to use magic, to wield power, could afford nothing less. By that guiding principle, she used magic sparingly and sought to center herself all the more, for the memories that haunted her. Ripples of the past carried those images straight to her mind, her heart. She saw them plainly in the still water, for they bubbled to the surface and popped with a foul smell.

The smell of death. The scent of ash.

The last time Riverfolk walked this village's soil, the prince Bailu led the defense. He stood at the foot of the waterfall while the Sorcerer Guard above and behind him brought the fury of nature against their foes, but in the end, their efforts were undone. The prince, powerful and deadly, felled one of his own with an errant strike. An understandable mistake, yet the prince couldn't shake his horror. With one swipe of his greatsword, the waves of pressure and shock shattered his comrade's bones. So distraught, he dropped his sword, and the Riverfolk overran the lower village. They slaughtered the defenders until there was naught but the prince left.

The prince was powerful. The prince had responsibilities. With his brother gone, he was heir to the throne. He was Captain of the Guard, yet he'd killed a man who'd stood beside him. He'd watched, paralyzed, as the Riverfolk slew them all. Such misdeeds, such futility, do not befit a leader. A leader who brings such death on his own people has only himself to blame.

Perhaps these were the thoughts of Bailu, but the ripples were faint and hard to decipher. Whatever did possess the prince surely moved him, for in his agony, guilt, and rage, he unleashed the most terrible magic: he touched his captors, and their bodies disintegrated. He gazed upon his enemies, and his stare burned their flesh and incinerated their bones. A cone of death swallowed the lower village that afternoon. The prince's power slew everyone who walked below the waterfall: not just the Riverfolk or the Guardsmen who lay dying from enemy arrows, but farmers and craftsmen who lived there. Livestock and foliage—they all turned to dust.

The prince drowned himself in the sacred spring, and rightly so. No man could've lived with the weight of such sins upon him. That's why, when Sindoor came to the Sorcerer throne, she resolved to strike a balance. Some powers are too dangerous to be wielded freely. Magic was useful, from time to time. Nay, it defined their culture, their way of life. Even the Lady had brought herself to use it—to impart her purpose to Saotome Ranma, to contact the captain when the distance between them was great—but beyond that, she abstained. She held back except to feel and listen, when it suited her.

Tink-tink. "My lady? Are you in there?"

Her eyes fluttered open. The knocks sent waves rippling over the water. "I meditate," she said. "Leave me."

"My lady," said the voice outside her door, "the captain was concerned about your safety. The Riverfolk have brought an army; we hold the line, but the battle does not go well."

Not well? Sindoor narrowed her eyes. She stared into the distance, delving into the chaos, but the flows of ki spoke not to her so clearly, not without effort she had no wish to expend.

"The captain should be concerned with the Riverfolk only," she said. "Not with me."

"Nevertheless, my lady, we must insist."

"And I must refuse. Obey your lady. Leave her be."

The door cracked open, and three small spheres rolled into the chamber. Slick with oil, they burned brightly, spewing smoke into the room. "So be it," said the voice through the wall. The door shut, and it froze over with a film of ice.

So it was. There was a time when Sindoor, too, believed in magic and thought it the cure to all that ailed mankind, but that part of her died the day Bailu laid waste to the lower village. From then on, she knew better.

She rose slowly from her seat, pacing through the billowing smoke. She crouched before the three spheres, noting their ingenious construction. Coated in oil, she could toss them in the water and it would do no good.

"Open this door," she said calmly. "Open this door, and I will forgive."

"There is no forgiveness! You keep us from magic; you pervert our bodies. The only future for us is with our vaunted lady dead!"

Sindoor pressed a hand to the door. The ice was slick and cold. That was the paradox: it should be warm—nay, hot with the emotion of betrayal. That was why such people were deluded. They didn't understand the magic and emotions they sought to manipulate. The flows would enslave them, these poor unsuspecting souls.

And they gave her no choice, much as she loathed exposing herself, but to risk the same.

KA-BLAM! The door shattered! The rubble sprayed the court. Bloody and buried, a Sorcerer crawled from the debris. His accomplice, however, kept to his feet, clear of the blast, and fought back.

THWAP-THWAP! Twin columns of ice shot through the doorway, but the Lady sidestepped them easily. She walked through with a measured gate, and as the second rebel showered her in ice spikes, she swatted them away like the strands of spiders' webs.

"You must concentrate," she said. "Your anger drives you; it controls you. Rely less on it. Magic is pure. Focus your powers on amplifying that, not your hate."

THWAP-THWAP! Two more spikes lodged in the court walls.

"You refuse to heed my words? A pity. Those who don't listen—"

THWAP! A single spike bored through the Sorcerer's gut, lifting him off the ground to kick and writhe.

"…should perish," said Sindoor.

"How?" The rebel touched the wound, feeling the blood between his fingers. "In that body, how?"

"Yes, the magic of the spring distorts the flows of ki. To wield lethal magic is difficult in this form."

THWAP-THWAP!

"But that is why I've trained in it, and you have not."

There was a beating, a bashing, a sound of blows on the iron doors of the Lady's court. Sensing the inevitable, Sindoor waved her hand, and the ice that bound the entrances gave.

"Lady!" said a clerk, and more followed him. "Are you all right?"

"Worry not; I am unharmed," said Sindoor. "You let them clear the court?"

"They said it was sensitive, that they were on the captain's orders."

Sindoor strolled to the main doors, where the morning breeze rustled her hair. From her view at the base of the spire, she watched the forests burn and her Sorcerers of the Guard buzz about the smoke plumes.

They flew and hovered, but did little, acting on their own against an army—a Riverfolk army—that treaded upon ground no outsider should touch. Their arrows showered the sky, and though bolts of lightning rained back at them, the strikes were few and far between.

Invaders on her doorstep, traitors and sinners in her midst. The lady Sindoor balled her fist, but then, as always, her voice was cool and steady, like stillness of water in a tranquil pond.

"Clerk," she said, "go behind the throne. You will find something there. Something useful."

The clerk poked his head around the stone seat. "My lady?" he asked.

"Yes, indeed," said Sindoor, not watching him. "That is what you seek. Bring it to me."

The clerk dragged out the object and trotted forth before his ruler. He kneeled, and Sindoor took the item: a wooden scabbard with a taped hilt sticking out. She donned the leather baldric over her back and tightened it to fit. She pulled on the hilt, and the sword came out: a long, straight blade it was, thin but rigid. An agile yet devastating weapon, befitting a magic-user who could erase its weaknesses and accentuate its strengths.

So armed, the lady Sindoor marched to battle with her blade held upright, ready to repeat history, so long as it kept her from failing her people again.

#

"Wake up, child."

Climbing, straining, a baby boy peeked over the edge of his basket, glimpsing the world with eyes wide and bright. Straw walls protected him, kept him in shade. Outside, children—boys and girls just a few years older than him—ran down the dirt path, kicking a ball. It was morning, for the birds cried and sang. It was peaceful. It was quiet.

And truthfully, the boy sat back in his basket, hoping to sleep again.

"No, no," said a voice, and a hand took the basket by the rim. "Look out there, little one. Look and remember. Take it in."

The game of ball had passed, but others stayed behind. A young girl, age five or so, sat in the doorway of her hut, weaving a basket by hand. A toddler, her younger brother, perhaps, moved needles and bent them with his mind, with magic. A simple power, taught at a young age, for they needed it to make a living. To feed their family, to survive.

"These are your people," said the woman, her breath warm on the baby's face. "They are yours, and you are theirs. The time will come when you'll lead them, whether in war or peace. Always remember that you serve them. Always remember that you should protect them. Not just from invaders, though there will be those, I expect. No, the danger to our ways lies in the explosiveness, the volatility, of our human souls. You must shelter the people against your flaws, your whims. That is the duty of a leader. But more importantly, you must shield them from themselves."

The woman set the basket down, and try as he might, the child in the basket couldn't glimpse her face. Not that he had reason to, or even the capacity to, but in hindsight, in retrospect, if he could've turned the image to suit his desires, perhaps he would see the face of the woman, the only woman who cared for him, who rocked him as a baby…

"Always remember that, my child, my Kohl."

And Kohl did remember it—not as a lesson in the way of a leader but for the only time, in his recollection, a woman carried him in her arms. Why that woman thought him special he couldn't say. He grew up in a shelter. From the age of three, children like him helped work the fields for harvest and wielded simple magics to do the work of men—to sow seeds, to make fire when heat was scarce. The children worked together, for that was the only way they'd survive, and though the Lady did what she could to look after them, they were nothing special. Kohl wasn't, at least.

As the children grew, their magic flourished, and soon, the Lady began to choose among them for service—the best of their lot would serve in the resurrection of the Guard. And Kohl, always remembering those words whispered to him in childhood, was eager to serve. She made him captain; she made him advisor. She thrust responsibility on him, and he accepted it. It was his duty. It was his mission, his only purpose in life, until Tilaka awoke.

_And then I abandoned it._

Eyes open, yet perfectly still, the Captain of the Guard lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling and unable to turn away. Xiu's drool dripped off his forehead. The wooden needle stuck in his back. Frozen, paralyzed, Kohl let death surround him. The world faded out, and he was left only with his thoughts.

_To do right by Tilaka, what have I forsaken? The lives of men in pointless battles? Their trust? Their honor? I abused my power. I used it to serve my ends. I spoke of the village's interest, yet I acted for my own. My lack of honor. My guilt. Those deficiencies I've only compounded._

Though his eyes failed him, his body told him much, sensed much. He sensed the fear that gripped the people, the chaos and confusion in his men and in the tower. These things the body he was born with felt easily, yet in some way, he was indifferent to them. He was helpless, inactive, inert. He was a rock in the stream, and the flows of ki bent around him, but aside from the eddies he formed in his wake, he could no more reach out to the riverbanks than a stone could sprout legs. What happened outside him did not matter, for he could do nothing to change it.

He could only sleep.

"Kohl…"

Was this what it was like to be Sieve? Bombarded by sensations one cannot ignore? By voices that do not whisper, only jabber on and scream? Let him sleep! Let him sleep and forget his failures, lest they haunt him in death instead.

"Kohl!"

Let him sleep.

"KOHL!"

Bright, sharp, white light. His eyes snapped open. He gasped; he coughed. His heart raced, thundering in his ears.

A boy leaned over him, smiling, but that smile was a cover for relief, for creeping dread. "Welcome back," he said.

"Tilaka?" Sitting up, Kohl felt his lower back. There was a hole in his tunic, but the skin was smooth and unbroken. The needle rolled freely at his side. "How?" he asked. "How did you know?"

"I'm always listening, now that I know you're here."

"But you healed me! Only a priest could do that. And even then—"

"Are you really saying there's a magic so familiar to us that I couldn't possibly understand? I've been practicing…" He touched Kohl's arm along a white line, a light, faded scar. "Remember?"

"But the poison!"

"I didn't heal you halfway, Kohl."

Tilaka offered his hand, and Kohl took it. Tilaka pulled him to his feet, and though woozy, Kohl regained his footing soon enough, yet his grip remained firm.

"I don't have time to adequately thank you, my friend," said Kohl.

The Sieve nodded. "The captain's business is more important, always. What happened here, Kohl? Who did this?"

Kohl balled his fist. "Xiu. He betrays the Lady, betrays us."

"Xiu stabbed you?"

A scoff. "No. He was too cowardly to do that himself." Kohl peeked out the observation window and lit up the dark with fire in the palm of his hand, but the Sieve's chambers were empty, save for the dead. "Damn him. He has the Sieve. Come, Tilaka; let us find them!"

But Tilaka pulled back on Kohl, holding him in place. "Running off won't be the fastest way, captain. You know that. We could look many places and never come across them, but the magic they move should make their presence clear."

"What then?"

"Open your mind with me," said Tilaka, raising their still-joined hands. "If you'll let me. If you trust me."

"I admit," said Kohl, "I had doubts, but I can trust enough to look past them."

"And I'm thankful for that."

They closed their eyes, and the swirling flows of the village rushed through them. The screams of the wounded, the echoes of the dead, but more importantly, there was a trace, a wake, a feeling of presence in the tower beneath their feet.

"They're still here," said Tilaka.

Kohl's eyes flashed. "In the Lady's court."

#

"Ranma!" hissed Akane. "Wake up, already! Ranma!"

Down the central stair of the tower, the betrayer lieutenant and his two henchmen made off with the Sieve. Xiu led Akane down with ropes binding her hands—a trick knot it was, but enough to deceive the Guardsmen who passed them by. The two others carried Ranma by his ankles and armpits, for the new Sieve as yet still slumbered, trapped in a dream of horrors' making.

"Please, snap out of it, Ranma! Wake up!"

"Shut up!" snapped Xiu. "You only draw attention to yourself. Do you wish to be discovered? A prisoner should be quiet!"

"We'd be out of here already if you could've done something to wake him up!" said Akane. "We're _walking_ all the stories of this tower? I thought you people knew magic! Isn't there a faster way down?"

"Yes, please, let's fly out," said Xiu. "Fly and be shot like pigeons? No thank you. I have authority now. The Guard listens to me. Now do as you're told, and _shut up_."

Akane snarled. Some help this was, to be treated like a dog after all she did. They wouldn't even be escaping if she hadn't stabbed Wuya in the back.

"But why?" she asked quietly. "Why won't he wake up?"

Glancing up and down the stair, Xiu answered curtly. "I've seen it before. He'll stay in that special hell forever, or he'll come out closer to being Sieve. Be glad he's resisted this long. Tilaka was put in that slumber, and he broke within half a day. Your friend is stubborn; I'll give him that."

So it was. Ranma was fighting, even in his sleep. That's why it was fair that Akane fought for him, killed for him, to do what needed to be done.

At last, after much hiking, they reached the ground level, the entrance to the Lady's court, but where a stiff iron door should've been, they found only warped fragments and a pool of melting water instead.

"Wait a moment," said Xiu, raising a hand. "Something's wrong."

Following his lead, the group crept into the court. Inside, the officers of Sindoor sliced and chopped at spikes of ice. They cut down the body of one rebel and dragged the other into a pile—a heap of rubble, ice, and flesh—that sat in a corner, waiting to be cleaned.

"You there, clerk!" said Xiu, pointing. "What happened here?"

"Traitors came for the Lady," said the clerk. "They tried to murder her, but she fought back."

" 'Fought back'? Impossible. The Lady does only simple tricks. She doesn't sully herself by using magic."

"She was alone with them, and only she came out alive," said the clerk. "How else would you explain it?"

Xiu grimaced.

"You'd best be careful, lieutenant. There are traitors among the Guard."

"But the Lady," said Xiu. "Where is she now?"

The clerk pointed out the door. "There. Even if the Guard can't be wholly trusted, the Lady will defend us."

"Impossible."

"You doubt the Lady's power? Perhaps it is _you_ whom we should doubt, lieutenant. But if you don't believe, go now. See for yourself."

Striding boldly, Xiu marched from the tower, into the morning, but no sun cast light on the day. The sky swelled with clouds. Red and fiery, they hung low over the village, throwing a constant flicker of lightning. Bolts showered the ground to the east, for that was where the Riverfolk came. Balls of fire rained on them; the sky frothed with the rage of an angry god, for that god was Sindoor, the Lady of the Sorcerers, and she sat, cross-legged, with her sword laid over her knees, not twenty steps from the tower base at the top edge of a retaining wall. The rest of the village beneath the waterfall fanned out below for her to look down on from her throne.

"Impossible," muttered Xiu, retreating to the tower like a poor creature burned by the sun. "Come!" he called to Akane and his men. "We must move, quickly!"

They scampered back down the stairs, into the sub-levels, with a haste Xiu hadn't shown before, one he wished he had.

"I don't understand," said Akane. "What happened? What went wrong?"

"She should be dead!" Xiu pounded his fist on the wall. "The Lady doesn't use magic with any substance! She can't, not with that body! It's not possible!"

"It just means you made a mistake," said Akane. "You underestimated her."

The five barged into the second basement level, the Chamber of Magic's Coupling. They rushed by the empty stalls. A curtain fluttered in Xiu's path, but he tore it from its links.

"This is not my mistake!" he insisted. "I couldn't have known she had that much power! I'd never seen it; no one has!"

"Because you were always blind to order," said a voice, calling from behind. "Blind to magic."

Xiu shuddered. He glanced over his shoulder with a glare of horror, of spite. "You? You survived that? How?"

The captain, Wuya, stepped forward with a band of Guardsmen at her back. "My fortune is to have an ally," she said. "One who's given more than she should. Even now, she helps me. See?"

At the far end of the chamber, the Sieve Tilaka stepped out, eyes focused squarely on Xiu.

"Do you have any allies, traitor?" asked Wuya. "Is there anyone to help you now? Or have you forsaken all you knew—myself, the Lady—in your thirst for power?"

Xiu sneered. "You're right: I do thirst for power. I thirst because the Lady gives us mere droplets that can't truly satisfy the appetite of man!"

ZAP-ZAP-THWAP! Bolts of lightning and ice shot at the Lady's loyalists! Wuya and her men ducked for cover.

"Forward!" Xiu barked at his companions. "Through the Sieve!"

Akane snapped her bonds. She bolted forward with naught but her bare hands, for they'd have to be enough.

"Hello again," said Tilaka. "You wish to fight?"

"Yes!" said Akane.

"That's going to be a problem."

She punched, but her hand went through him. The form of Tilaka wavered and distorted, like a pattern of ink in flowing water.

"It's a trick!" said Xiu. "He's not really here!"

The image dissipated, but the Sieve's quiet laughter remained, echoing through the chamber. "That doesn't mean I can't fight back."

THWAP-THWAP-THWAP! A web of ice spikes riddled the chamber, barbed and sharpened. They trapped Xiu and Akane. They cut off the henchmen who carried Ranma, and the new Sieve's body fell, lying limp at Xiu's feet.

"I know your mind well, Xiu," said the real Tilaka, stepping out with Wuya. "I remember it from camp. I know how you sneered at me in the dark as I sat, when you thought no one was watching."

"You sated the Sieve and then became it!" he said. "You rejected what you should've embraced instead! You're the traitor, not me! Give me a reason why I shouldn't hate you."

"Maybe there are none, but I can give you a reason to stop fighting. You won't escape with Saotome Ranma. Not together. Not alive."

Akane struck a ready pose, but Xiu merely laughed. "You are fools. I have the Sieve. If I resist, what will you do? Attack us? Risk killing him?"

Wuya narrowed her eyes. "What do you suggest?"

"Lower the ice for me. You want the Sieve so badly? Grant me safe passage, and I'll give him to you."

"No!" cried Akane. "You can't!"

"Shut up! I don't serve you!"

"We had a deal!"

"And that deal ended when the captain took another breath!"

"That _really_ makes me want to trust you," said Wuya.

Xiu narrowed his eyes. "Leave her trapped, will you? I can bring you the Sieve alone."

"So be it," said Wuya. "Tilaka, go ahead."

With a nod and a wave of his hand, half of Tilaka's ice web melted, leaving the residual water on the stone floor. Xiu picked up Ranma by the back of his collar, letting his feet drag.

"Well?" said Wuya. "We're waiting."

"Yes, yes," said Xiu. "You want your Sieve?"

THWAP! A spike of ice shot through Ranma's gut.

"Then let him bleed," said Xiu, throwing the body to the ground. "Let his blood wash away every last vestige of your perverse ways, so there will never be a Sieve again."

* * *

**Next:** Sindoor shows the true level of her powers, and the Amazons throw the weight of their army against her, but the true battle lies in the chambers below the tower, where only Ranma can choose between a life in servitude, a release in death, or something else entirely. To save Ranma's life and soul, Akane reaches out to him and the Amazons storm the tower with full force in "The March upon the Sorcerer's Den" Part V - "When Flows of Magic Reverse" - Coming April 29, 2011.

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	47. The March V: When Flows of Magic Reverse

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** Realizing he couldn't keep Ranma out of Sindoor's hands, Xiu stabbed the would-be Sieve. Over Ranma's blood, the future of the Sorcerers, the Amazons, Ranma, and Akane is decided.

* * *

**When Flows of Magic Reverse**

_Chapter Seven, Act Five_

"Ranma? RANMA!"

They were words he heard, over and over, a sinister refrain to the chorus of his soul. From where she called he couldn't say, but he heard her, and in the landscape of his mind, he sat still. He shut his eyes tightly, for darkness was his shelter, silence his cloak. He said nothing to answer her, felt little on hearing her cries fade away, for what he did hear—

BLAM!

Was a nine-millimeter slug boring into her brain. Her corpse thudded on a tile floor, for the images crept into his imagination despite his efforts to shut them out. Long ago, Ranma had lost count of the fatalities, of the many and varied ways she could die. The human mind is infinite in its creativity, and the murder of a girl was no exception. At first, it had been fate and chance that slew her. She died in childbirth giving life to their son. A convertible smashed into their sedan as they made a right turn past the corner store. But these innocuous, almost blameless incidents soon gave way to deaths more sinister, more personal in scope.

He surely remembered the first time. "They" were walking home. They argued. They fought. She swung her bag at him, and that was the critical mistake. She sensed the danger coming. She turned on one foot to face it. Had she not been quarreling with him, could she have ducked? Dodged? Glimpsed the threat and acquiesced, accepting her fate?

Pointless hypotheticals. The result was foregone. The arrowhead struck her heart, and her body shuddered like a piece of gelatin. Two more arrows flew from across the canal. These Ranma deflected, batted away with his own hands, but the shooter was satisfied. She stood tall on a distant rooftop, seeing her work was done, and took her two bulbous maces with her.

It started with Shampoo, then Ukyō. Kodachi too—she took great pleasure in tormenting her, drowning her in a water trap and laughing the whole time. Even Ryōga, that dope and fool, could be pushed into killing her—if she found out his secret, if she condemned him for it, there was no knowing what might possess him, but once the deed was done, he would grieve. He would forsake himself. He would show all these emotions while Ranma stood apart, feeling nothing, for he could just as easily kill her, too.

"Go on, you can touch it…"

On the balcony of a high-rise apartment complex, Ranma pressed his ear to the glass of a sliding door. Her voice came from inside, and a man—no, hardly a man, a wimp in a suit and tie—slid his fingers between the buttons of her shirt.

"Good," she said. "You're learning."

She left her blouse on the floor there and dragged her companion down the hall, out of sight. Ranma jiggled and pulled on the lock, shearing it until it tore. He slid the door open slowly and took with him a long, slender object wrapped in yellow cloth.

"You're nothing like I expected," said the man down the hall.

"Oh, no? You want me to go?"

"Not at all! It's just, I can't imagine who wouldn't treat you…" The voice was muffled. Ranma crept through the sitting area, past clean white carpet and ornate wooden trim. He turned a corner into the passageway, and a light cast the lovers' silhouettes on the wall. Indeed, a single black stocking flew into the corridor, discarded. "…who wouldn't," the man went on, "love you like he should."

The silhouettes pulled apart. "You're asking about my husband."

"I'm sorry; if I shouldn't have—"

"Oh no, it's fine. If you must know, he's a great man. A grand master in his art. Our art."

"He's not going to hunt me down for this, is he?"

She laughed. "Please. When it comes to matters of the heart, he wouldn't hurt a fly. He's timid. He thinks he's bold enough to touch me, but he isn't. He won't. He swept me off my feet when we were just children, when that sort of thing was cute. Now? He can hardly bring himself to whisper in my ear and tell me he loves me."

"Should I?"

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. "It couldn't hurt," she said, "but you don't have to mean it. We're both adults, aren't we?"

The pair embraced, and then and there, Ranma made up his mind. He removed the yellow covering cloth and stomped to the bedroom door.

"What the hell?" said the man, zipping up his pants. "Who is that? Who's in here?"

"Come on," she said, "it's probably nothing. It's—"

Shink. It was the point of a katana piercing her lover's gut. Ranma yanked the blade out, and the corpse fell flat on the floor.

"Oh, I see." She narrowed her eyes, her hands on her hips, wearing nothing but a single stocking, a plain gray skirt, and a black brassiere. "So this is how it is, Ranma? You'd hold on to me in an iron fist, so I can find no pleasure in life for myself?"

"I didn't marry you for you to touch another guy! No way!"

"Not like you've done much touching yourself! If you can't even do that, why did you even marry me in the first place?"

"Why do you think?"

She raised both eyebrows. "To get Shampoo and Ukyō to stop chasing you? Or maybe you really did think you loved me, but it wasn't so. That's the difference between childish infatuation and love. Real love is between people. All you loved about me was my shadow, and shadows were all you showed me in return."

She marched past him, snatching up her stocking as she walked up the hall.

"You know that ain't true!" he called back.

"Yes it is. You think this proves something to me, Ranma? It doesn't. It just shows me you want to hold on to what you think you have, but you don't own my heart, Ranma, not anymore. Show me what's really in yours."

She walked off with a sway in her hips. Her words were curt, but the implication, the invitation was there. He could prove to her what was in his heart only if he showed her.

If he took her.

He snatched her wrist and turned her, pinning her on the wall. Hungrily, their lips met, and Ranma drank in the passion he denied himself, a passion she unlocked within him. It was heat, ecstasy, delirium.

Her free hand touched his slid down his chest, catching on his waistband.

"Okay, Ranma," she whispered as they came apart, "I'm ready, if you are."

"Eh?"

"Come on," she said. "You don't know what it's like. When you're together, you look in their eyes, and you can see they want you so bad they need you, even if just for a minute." She smiled. "I can show you. And you can show me, too."

That's right; it was an act to expose the body, to relish in physical pleasures, but more importantly, to lie with another bared the soul as well. It made one's heart open for another to see.

Open…and vulnerable.

He pulled back, catching her hand just as she slid down his waistband an inch. "That's enough," he said. "Stop."

Her eyes flashed. "So it is. You're still a little boy, not ready to love. Well that's fine." She shoved him aside and picked up her blouse. "It's just going to happen again, you know. I'm my own woman, and I'll find comfort wherever I please. Are you prepared to kill everyone who could be my lover? Are you, Ranma?"

She buttoned down her blouse, put on her leftover stocking. She looked in a mirror and straightened her hair, like nothing had happened, like she would go out to the busy street and lie with the next guy she found. Anyone else would show her love and pleasure—anyone but him—and she'd continue to seek them out as his wife. It wasn't about her needs as a person, as a woman.

It was out of spite. She _wanted_ him to be watching, to watch and burn just for a moment like this.

_Not anymore._

Shink.

She choked. She coughed, yet the blade held fast. Her eyes turned from the blade to the man who held it, and her head tilted in wonder, in surprise.

"But Ranma," she said, "I always thought…I thought…"

She slumped on the blade and tumbled, crashing through a coffee table, lying in rubble.

All fake. Fake it was. _She_ would never act like that. She _hadn't_. These images, these illusions—they should be meaningless.

"Ranma…" her voice echoed. "Ranma…"

But they weren't. Little by little, the thousand deaths she'd died whittled away parts of his soul. The images were false, but the pain—it was real.

Yet still he tried to quash it, to bury it in silence, to wipe away the false conjurings of his imagination with an endless black, a deepening void, where neither pleasure nor pain would reach. These were the evils men did to one another, evils humanity would be better without.

This Ranma knew, for he felt those evils creep into the void. The acts of men make an indelible impression; their hatred and jealousy reached him, and for that, he would stand in judgment. Not just of her, but of every man and woman who yet still possessed a beating heart.

His judgment started with Xiu. In the sacred Chamber of Magic's Coupling, Ranma's blood mixed with icewater, seeping out in a steady stream. The Sorcerer lieutenant released Ranma's collar, and the would-be Sieve, lost in corrupted slumber, collapsed on the floor.

"No!" She lurched against the ice web, and the thorn-like spikes scraped against her hands, her skin. "No, Ranma, no!"

KA-PAM! A pressure wave shattered the web! Shards of ice showered the hall. Wuya and her men fell back behind flat blocking panels; Akane tumbled free.

"You're right, you know," said Xiu, standing over her. "It was my mistake, trusting you. I knew what I needed to do, yet I thought I could walk a higher path." He laughed. "But honor won't defeat Sindoor." His fingertips sparked. "Honor won't save you."

A line of snowflakes touched his hand.

THWA-CHING! Ice met ice; Kohl's column broke on Xiu's protective shell, and wisely, the lieutenant backed away in retreat.

"Traitor!" said the captain. "Get back here!"

But Xiu scampered around the corner, making his way up the stair to the outside. Under the bloody red sky, he broke for the outer gate of the palace grounds, not heeding the guards who hailed him or the scorching meteors whose heat rippled past. By the cliffside trail, the lieutenant scampered to the upper village. He flew over the riverbed. He swooped into the marketplace, rousing the artisans from the business of buying and trading. He stepped up to the rope-maker's tent, and the little boy behind it scampered from the back.

KA-PAM! The lieutenant immolated the stand, cleansing with fire all traces of the rope-maker's stand and plot. History sides not, after all, with the defeated.

'_He's a coward, isn't he? '_

The voice spoke to Ranma in the black. It was her voice, but it wasn't. It took her form, her appearance. He'd seen her before—when he broke free of Henna's cage, when he attacked the Sorcerer camp outside Mount Phoenix, and then as now, she looked back at him with a penetrating stare. Her lips pressed together, making no move, yet her voice filled the space of his thoughts.

'_He made me kill for you. He tried to kill me, too.'_

That was right. The world was better without his malice, his hate. Take that away from the lieutenant, from the rope-maker he served, and there would be no bloodshed in the village, no death in the Amazon ranks.

Surely there was death. Ranma's friends and comrades, rivals and suitors, witnessed it themselves. Under rain of fire and slicing sleet, the Nerima party clung to the tree line. The waters of the sacred spring frothed and churned, rippling with every impact of ice spikes and flaming meteors.

"This is your safe route?" asked Cologne of their rebel guide.

"Not safe. _Safer._"

Cologne huffed. " 'Safer' it is then." She held up a radio handset and clicked the button on the side. "Warriors of the Tribe," she said, "do you stand ready to crush your enemies?"

"AWOO!" came the battlecry from the rear. "AWOO, AWOO!"

"Then charge!"

A volley of arrows cleared the treetops, and the Nerima party dashed forth under their cover, leading the army behind them through. Making for the tower, they ran together, each of them, albeit for different reasons. For Ukyō and Shampoo, every step on the soft, muddy ground brought them closer to their hearts' singular desire. For Mousse and Ryōga, they defended their bodies with with metal—with chains and the shaft of an unbreakable umbrella—just as they guarded their souls every day, for the women they loved coveted another. To confuse the shots of lightning and ice that hassled them, Konatsu threw smoke and dust bombs, raising a cover for his devotion, his secret duty that no one should know.

And Cologne? She who risked one life and claimed another, who led the army of her people on a false mission, a quest for vengeance and truth?

So it was. Each of them felt it—that compulsion, that inner drive. Through journeys over the Plateau, battles on Jusendō and Mount Phoenix, they'd pushed on. Now, the Sorcerers brought searing flames against them, burning a wound across Shampoo's cheek. They called lightning from the sky, zapping Ukyō and Konatsu just steps from the outermost retaining wall. Yet still the party pressed, over earth and stone that froze solid. They climbed onto the tower grounds, and the battalion behind them, ripe and eager for blood, tasted only their own: an array of ice spikes erupted from the earth, skewering all but a fraction of their number.

'_That's the price of passion, isn't it? They all sacrificed something to come for you. And those people who didn't—they could be sacrifices, too.'_

But the Nerima party soldiered on. Such audacity they carried with them, such boldness and temerity. Truly, they cared nothing for what died in their wake. They were the driving force behind this attack, for without them, the Amazons would make no march upon the Sorcerer's Den, and the blood of their friends and enemies alike would seep no longer into the soil. Such single-minded passion—that's why Ranma judged them, too. Were they relieved of their desires, their sins and regrets would never have come to pass.

And pass they did; they passed before the eyes of the lady Sindoor, and unlike the others, who justified and excused their failings, the Lady reveled in them. The coming of the Sieve was at hand. The magic of the Sorcerers burst forth, like a river breaking through its dam, and as that stream leveled all in its path, the Lady's magic wrought destruction and mayhem on the army that invaded her soil. She delighted in it. She relished it. The magic released her fury, her rage. With every lightning bolt, release. With every fireball, catharsis. That was the way of magic—to explode, to break down the world it was conjured in, unless someone or something else could absorb it and take it into himself. There was no such man, not yet, so Sindoor drank from that forbidden well of power and took pleasure in it.

For a time.

The Amazon hordes, though they fell in droves with every ring of the grounds they climbed, as yet closed on the base of the tower proper, on the final ring upon which Sindoor sat. She slowed them on ice; she impaled them with neither mercy nor prejudice, but they persisted. The Lady, undeterred, never wavered from her position, but her followers in the tower lacked her unyielding sense of faith. They came forth, staves twirling, the glow of light and fire from their hands.

"No!" At last, the Lady rose, and she leveled her sword on the new combatants. "Go back! Go back, I say! Your lady will defend you!"

They listened not, for where their faith lacked, their loyalty more than made up for it. The Amazons, led by Cologne, leapt atop the last retaining wall, and there, the forces of Sorcerer and Amazon met at close range. Staff-tips cratered the earth, spraying soil skyward. Shampoo's maces cut through the air and smashed Sorcerer ribs. Lightning shot down Mousse's chains and sleeves, twitching his muscles, pinning him in place.

"Forget the Guard!" yelled Ryōga. "It's the woman!"

PAM! On a shell of swirling, turbulent wind, Konatsu bounced off like a pinball on a bumper, but where less-weathered hands failed, the Amazon matriarch refused to falter. With her walking stick in hand, she swiped and cut at the wind barrier. She dashed from the outer edge of the ring.

CRACK!

She broke through, skidding on the dirt.

"Impressive," said the Lady. "But such tricks will not save you. Tell me, River-dweller, do you know this sword?"

Cologne eyed the straight blade and the gentle curve it made at the tip. "Yes," she said.

"I doubt that," said Sindoor. "For if you truly knew it, you would be dead!"

WHAM! Cologne leapt clear, and the greatsword gashed the earth and all that lay in a cone before its reach. The blow thundered over the tower grounds, shattering the innermost retaining wall, yet Sindoor kept a steady footing even as the soil gave and crumbled beneath her.

"Scatter!" said Cologne. "She wields the Sword of Bailu!"

Again and again, Sindoor slashed at the earth, and the shockwaves from her blows rippled over the tower rings. The impacts kicked up dirt and shattered bone, crippling both friend and foe. That was the Lady's dormant power, and without a Sieve to drain her, to keep her in check, she was as deadly to her own people as the Amazons were.

'_Can't you feel it? The rage inside her? The anger? She's evil. She's can't hold it in.'_

And Ranma could. Let those feelings sink and swirl into the black. He could take them with him and bear them, bear them like he did the thousands deaths of that girl he imagined, the girl who stared at him in his mind's eye. Who was she to be so prevalent in his thoughts? Who was she to haunt his nightmares?

Who was she?

"Ranma…"

In the barren stone corridor of Magic's Coupling, she shook him. She swept away the shards of broken ice and rolled him to his side, so he would face her, so the thick spike in his gut stuck out, parallel to the ground.

"Don't!" cried the captain. "You can't! Tilaka, stop her!"

The Sieve caught her wrist, yet she cried out, all the same. "Oh, for the love of the gods!" she said, bawling, thrashing. "It's sticking right through him! Let me pull it out!"

"Please, stop!" said Tilaka. "Please, you must calm yourself for a moment. He'll only bleed that way. Have faith. The captain will help." He looked to Wuya. "Won't you, captain?"

A stern nod. "Priests!" she yelled up the center stair. "I need priests, quickly!"

The tower rattled for the sounds of battle and hurried footsteps echoed through the central stair. A team of priests, hooded in white and jade trim, descended the steps and gathered around Ranma. They held his wrists and ankles. They linked their hands with each other, with Tilaka, and gingerly, a single priest wrapped his fingers around the ice shaft.

Shink, clang! The spike hit the floor and rolled, but the girl flinched and turned away, shutting her eyes.

The priests laid Ranma on his back, dressing the wound in white cloth, but seeping blood turned the fabric red in no time at all. Still Ranma stared emptily, gazing at the ceiling, watching himself through his mind's eye, for he wanted not to move, to act, to feel the pain and agony his body endured. He was detached, formless, and that was better.

But the girl reached out to him. When the priests let his wrists go, she took his hand. She clenched it, though it cooled, though the life that flowed through it seeped out on the floor. She kneeled in the pool of water and blood, and over the humming of the priests and Tilaka, who focused their magic on the perfection of a single pitch, she spoke.

"Ranma."

"Shh!" said Wuya, scolding her, but the girl only shot back with an implacable glare.

"I don't know how good your magic is," she said, "but I'm going to speak my mind to him. Can you tell me for sure it won't be the last thing he hears?"

She was stubborn. That's right. She was hard-headed, persistent. She'd hold on to him when all he wanted was to sleep, to dream, to drift in the void and let the poisonous thoughts and feelings of the world wash over him and be nullified, be empty.

Even in her heart, there was poison. There was pain. She took his hand, smiling but forlorn, and started again. "Hey there," she said. "I guess you should be mad at me for coming here, for getting in the middle when things are so grim, but I wanted to come here. That was my choice—my choice for you.

"That's what made me dislike you at first, you know. I didn't have any choice in the matter. An engagement, when it could've been any one of us, but my sisters and father thrust it on me! I know you didn't like it either, but for me, it was insulting. It's not like I didn't want to follow in Father's footsteps. I just thought, in time, I could do it myself.

"You know what I always hated about you, Ranma? You could find every one of my soft spots whenever you wanted, and you'd never be shy about it. I sink like a hammer. I cook like a maniac. I lose my temper over petty things, so much it makes me forget how to smile—or I used to, until you told me just how much better I looked with one. Even then, I thought you were still harping on me, just trying to make me look bad, and some of the time, you were. But the rest?

"The rest of the time, I realized, you were pushing me, too. Pushing me to be better. Maybe it wasn't even conscious on your part, but that's the truth, and as much as I hated you for making me feel it every time you pushed one of those buttons, I thank you for reminding me they were there and that I had something to conquer, something to put behind me."

Foolishness, delusion. It was a tale she told herself to dull her hurt feelings. She should know better. She should let him go.

Let go.

"Eh?"

There was a gasp, and the girl's spirits brightened, but the hand she held went limp. The priests leaned over Ranma's mouth, listening. They touched his neck. They looked to one another. Even the fount of blood in his chest had slowed and stopped flowing at all.

So that's what it would be. He would sink into a different void, yet it made no difference to him. One or the other, he welcomed it. He had nothing to keep him here, only the fading, blurry impression of the ritual chambers and the hand that held his, anchoring him to that world. She shook, make no mistake, yet she forced the words past her lips.

"You know, at first I liked you better," she said, "when I thought you were a girl. I thought a boy would try to show that he's better than me, but if you were a girl, we could be friends. We could share secrets and train each other in the Art. And I was angry! The girl I met turned out to be something else. I was angry then, but I'm not anymore! I'm not! Do you know why, Ranma?"

He didn't, and he cared not. Let him be; let him sleep. Let him disappear, little girl, for you too are slave to your feelings. They make you shiver. They make you quake. They make you cry when you shouldn't weep, when you should be dead to those emotions, for that would be better. That would be fair.

Grasping his hand between hers, she wept freely, and her tears dripped on his face. "It's because you _are_ that person," she said. "It took me a long time to see that, to realize that you wouldn't laugh at me or toss me aside. You're my friend, Ranma—the friend I was looking for, and you were next to me all this time! So please, Ranma, come back!"

She buried her face in his neck, but Ranma felt nothing from it. The walls and the priests vanished in the void. The Sieve and the captain, standing side-by-side, turned to gray and faded, like a shot from a camera turning out of focus. The void was formless, nameless, and inspired by that finality, Ranma cast his judgment on the girl, too: she was misguided, she knew not what she said, what she did, and she should forget, just as he forgot, just as he let her face, her form, disappear into the black, too, until there was naught but her voice to call after him.

"Come back, Ranma," she said, "so I can tell you I love you too!"

The humming stopped, and as he sank beneath the void, he faltered. He hesitated, for a word, a thought, a color forced itself back into his mind. It was something he thought he'd forgotten, and maybe, just maybe, it was worth hanging on to, worth staying in the light.

"Akane?"

* * *

**Next:** For a year and a half, you've followed Ranma's journey. At last, his adventures in China will end. A reckoning for Ranma, and the perverse Lady Sindoor, is at hand. The first book of _Identity_ comes to its dramatic finish in "The March upon the Sorcerer's Den" Part VI - "What You Leave Behind and What Comes After You in the Dark" - Coming May 6, 2011.

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	48. The March VI: What You Leave Behind

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** Amazon forces have swarmed the grounds of the Lady's tower, the very ground on which Ranma bleeds. The push for Ranma's rescue, for vengeance against Sindoor, ends here.

* * *

**What You Leave Behind **

**And What Comes After You in the Dark**

_Book One Finale_

As the humming of the priests was silenced, opposing forces below the waterfall stayed their arms. Thunder echoed and died away. Arrows fell to the earth and dug their heads in the soil. The combatants froze, looking upon each other in puzzlement, in wonder. Tranquility came over the village of the Sorcerers, a calming influence to give respite from fierce battle.

A respite for some, at least, but the Lady balled her fist.

"No…" she muttered. "It can't be; not now, not again!"

With her first step, the brawl resumed, yet Sindoor deflected and whipped aside her foes. She stormed across the uppermost ring and set her sights on a seam in the earth: a square outline with a set of footprints leading away.

The Lady spread her fingers, and the soil eroded, like grit from a sandblaster.

#

"Akane?"

She sat upright, her mouth hanging open. She stared, and a pair of cool brown eyes gazed back at her.

"Ranma! But how? You…you were…"

Bewildered, she peeled back the sopping, bloody strips of cloth. Underneath, his shirt separated into a gaping hole. She wiped away the blood, and the skin was smooth, unbroken, fresh, and intact.

"Impossible!" said Wuya. "He was dead; I saw it!"

"Then you did not feel," said Tilaka, rising. "Magic has healed Saotome Ranma."

"Your magic?"

"Not mine. Not the priests', either."

"Then whose?"

Tilaka nodded knowingly, watching the pair. "It was between them."

Ranma planted a hand, sitting up, but no sooner than he caught his breath did Akane embrace him.

"Thank God!"

"Oi, Akane!"

"I mean it! Thank God you're all right!"

"Gods and spirits had nothing to do with it," he said, patting her back. "Those guys—they locked me inside myself, and I fell into a dark hole, but you called to me. You showed me the way out, and I realized there was something I wanted to come back to, even if it doesn't always go the way it should. That's why I only have you to thank. I heard you, and what you said—it saved me."

She shuddered. She wept. She looked upon his face and cried with utter joy, and Ranma thought better than to say more, to risk spoiling the moment. In no way was this the time and place he wanted to have this conversation, but it would do. Without more words to ruin things between them, it would do just fine.

CRASH! Red sunlight flooded the chambers. The stone ceiling shattered and ripped away, floating in spinning chunks as if God Himself purged the law of gravity from the books, but no god or gods controlled the matter and energies in this place. Nay, it was Sindoor, the Lady, who descended into the exposed pit in a soft, controlled flight.

"What happened here, captain?" she asked. "What have you allowed to happen in these sacred halls?"

"The new Sieve was injured, my lady, but he is healed now! He can serve!"

"Serve, can he?" The Lady's gaze narrowed, piercing, like a laser beam trained on Ranma and Akane. "You expect this one to serve? He can serve no one so poisoned, so intoxicated with the energies he was meant to contain and destroy! You brought this girl with him, captain. Why? Out of some misplaced compassion? Perhaps I've been too lenient with you."

Ranma and Akane scrambled to their feet. "Buzz off, Sindoor," said Ranma. "You tried to make me your Sieve and failed. Let us go, and maybe the Amazons will have mercy and leave you be."

"Indeed!" At the rim of the crater, the hole that Sindoor had carved from the ceiling of the ritual chambers, Cologne and the Nerima party gathered, as did Sindoor's Sorcerer Guard. Enemies eyed each other warily, but their curiosity for the spectacle below halted their attacks for a time. "Come now, Queen of the Sorcerers," said Cologne. "Further bloodshed can be halted if you give him to us. If he can no longer be useful to you, what is the harm? It is as the boy says, we may leave you be. We may show you mercy."

"Mercy?" The Lady laughed. "That we should expect mercy from the Riverfolk—from they who've invaded my village with such abandon, such haste? No, old woman. No, Saotome Ranma. I do not expect mercy, but you of all people should know: if there is anyone in position to give mercy, it is we, the Sorcerers, and no one else!"

Fragments of stone hurtled and shot out, crashing at the feet of Amazon and Sorcerer alike. The Lady floated upward, and a daring, brave Amazon soul dared to leap after her, to strike at her with naught but a dagger and his bare hand. He laid a finger on her shoulder, but the Lady's smirk was unaffected.

"Fool."

Poof! The form of the warrior turned soft and ephemeral. At once, he was flesh, and then he was a cloud. He turned black and sooty and dissipated in the breeze.

"Scatter!" cried Cologne. "The magic of Bailu is manifest!"

With a trail of black dust spinning in eddies behind her, the Lady set foot on solid ground. She raised her sword over her head and planted it, tip down, in a ferocious thrust!

For a moment, there was a sound—a sound so piercing, so overwhelming, it registered more as silence than to the human ear than any crackle or booming thunder. It wasn't heard so much as felt, and though the Nerima party fled, though Ranma, Akane, and the rest of the combatants below scampered and climbed to see, the deafening silence drowned out their footsteps.

Until the plumes of ash made the first audible sound. The swath of destruction cut across the tower grounds to the tree line. The cool waters of the spring remained, but the tress disintegrated in piles of gray soot. The ash clouded the sky, which turned from furious red to opaque black on clear blue. A wave of heat overcame the tower grounds, as if a residue from a chemical reaction remained, and a smell of burning tickled the nose. Ranma sniffed it and trembled, for the sight before him, though not unfamiliar, froze him in horror.

_This ain't like Saffron; this ain't like Herb. They were powerful, they were tough, but you could outsmart them. You could beat them because they didn't think fast._ He looked to the sun, but that golden orb cast shadows from the ash on the tower grounds. _My gods. How do you outsmart _this_? _

A lean and slender finger stopped short of Ranma's nose, and he flinched back to avoid it.

"Well, Saotome Ranma?" said Sindoor, holding her nail just a hair's breadth from his skin. "Do you dare fight me now? Do you dare struggle against the flows of ki, knowing the magic in this finger of mine would shred you, body and soul?"

Gritting his teeth, Ranma steeled himself and batted her hand away. "You can't kill me, Sindoor."

Akane's eyes went wide. "What are you saying?"

"She's right, Ranchan!" From cover of rocks and pits dug into the earth, the Nerima party emerged, and Ukyō called out to Ranma. "Don't say stupid things unless you've actually got a plan! Do you?"

He smirked. "She won't kill me," he said. "She needs me to be their Sieve too much."

"You will not be Sieve," said Sindoor.

"I won't?"

The Lady's gaze turned to Akane. "Not while this girl stands by your side!"

"No, Akane!"

Ranma shoved her aside. He stepped in Sindoor's path, ready to take the blow, the final blow—

"Guh…"

But her hand closed around his throat instead. Before the Lady's sinister smile, he took the moment to blink, to quiver, to breathe.

"Surprised?" she said. "You think me out of control? I assure you, I'm not. Every ounce of magic I wield—"

WHAM! She propelled him into the tower wall.

"…I force to my will!"

WHAM, WHAM, WHAM! Shockwaves beat and pummeled Ranma, emanating from the Lady's outstretched fingers. Radial cracks formed from the blows, and though he pulled and yanked against the force, his wrists and ankles slammed back against the stone, as if held down by faeries or demons.

"Stop it!" cried Akane. "Get away!"

"No, Akane-chan!" said Ukyō. "Don't do it!"

PAM! With a backhand stroke, Sindoor knocked Akane aside. The girl tumbled in the dirt, and the captain herself stepped forward to intervene.

"That is quite enough—"

CRACK! Akane's fist spun Wuya and her jaw. The captain staggered, dazed, but her staff moved of its own accord. It floated and flew, right into Tilaka's hands.

"You can hurt the captain…"

ZAP! The staff, crackling with lightning, struck Akane's gut and discharged. She fell to her knees, gasping for air, her clothes smoldering.

"And I'll always be there," said Tilaka, "to hurt you back."

"No, not Akane-san!" cried a voice. "Don't you dare!"

"Stay, Hibiki," came another. "Stay!"

And Ranma, beaten and bloodied, gained the strength to clench his bicep, to pull his arm free of the all-powerful pushing, flattening force that pinned him against the stone. Groaning, he wiggled his fingers, and an air of frost coalesced at the tips.

"No, no," said Sindoor. "That bores me. I tire of you."

WHAM, crumble! The forming spike of ice shattered, the tower's outer wall broke and caved. A pressure wave smashed Ranma through the fortifications and left him to sleep in the rubble, the pieces of black and jagged stone.

"Captain, take them both," said Sindoor, tossing her sword aside. "And take any of the other Riverfolk you can as prisoners, if they haven't already fled. If they don't know what's good for them."

With that, the Lady retired from the battlefield, but from then until nightfall, a black scar of the hung over the lower village, telling of the wounds both Amazon and Sorcerer had endured.

#

It was tradition among the Amazons to burn those who fall on the field of battle. Why that came to be was a matter for historians and scholars to ponder, but in the great warrior tradition of their tribe, to be laid to rest by fire concealed the true number of casualties from the enemy. It made the fallen useful to their comrades for light and heat. It saved the effort of burying a corpse that less-civilized foes might choose to dig up and desecrate. But most of all, it made the body something his comrades would see spread to the winds, something they'd breathe in and always remember.

The Sorcerers' tendency to expedite the process, however, was by no means appreciated. Nay, this day, as before, the Amazons feared it, and they had no one but themselves to blame.

"You knew," scowled Bindi, pointing a finger at Cologne. "You knew they could wield that power again. You saw it yourself, yet you said nothing!"

"The only one I saw use it hesitated to repeat that deed." Nevertheless, Cologne closed her eyes, shaking her head. She exhaled, fully aware of the irony in the words to come. "I considered the risk acceptable."

"Acceptable? Tell me, what do you smell in the air? Do you consider that risk 'acceptable' now?"

"First Speaker, please—" said Surma, taking her by the arm.

"Don't you dare! Don't touch me!" But Bindi's fury washed away, all the same. Her face showed her age in the twilight, and with a heavy sigh, she sat. The three Speakers and Cologne met under the old command tent once more, now tattered with burn marks and gathering ash.

"As loathe as I am to admit it," said Thanaka, "I fear we've made a huge mistake. There will be time to ponder that, to consider why and how it happened, but nevertheless, we must preserve what is left of our people here. We must retreat."

"At first light," said Bindi. "I won't lose more by navigating with torches over unfamiliar terrain."

"Then we sit at the Sorcerers' doorstep," said Surma. "At their mercy for a whole night."

Cologne's brow furrowed. "Just as that Sindoor said."

With that, the four elders adjourned, for the business of leading an army was long since done. Instead, they sat with their people to console them, to lend them strength, for the fires of their great camp had dimmed and faded, and like with Cologne, those who'd survived were the ones willing, the ones with the fortitude, to leave friends, comrades, and loved ones behind. Before the battered and ash-laden Nerima party, Cologne had only one message to give.

"Sleep. We must go, for now, and let things be."

"Will we come back?" asked Ukyō. "For either of them?"

Cologne looked at her with tired eyes and walked off with nothing to say, for what more could be said? This day, a woman's single-minded devotion had cost a thousand souls.

#

And it was indeed a question of the soul, wasn't it? That was the question that haunted the captain, haunted Kohl.

"My lady," he said idly, eying the hole Sindoor bored in the tower wall, exposing the court, "I thought some magics weren't meant to be used."

"There are exceptions in all things, advisor." The Lady sat, cross-legged, meditating at the base of her throne, seemingly oblivious to the work her court officers did to gather the rubble, to sweep the ash from the floor.

Indeed, the Lady was more right than she knew. There were exceptions, contradictions, in everything she'd done. The Sieve was meant to protect the people from themselves, but who among them wielded truly deadly magic? Kohl, perhaps, but more likely, it was the woman sitting on that stone throne. She upheld the tradition of the Sieve, enforced it, demanded it. She spoke of the dangers of magic, yet she herself was the most dangerous of them all. The Lady had her secrets. She sent her priests to the spring ground to test the effects of the water. She made Kohl her captain, and still, he knew not why.

The court cleared as the officers of the Lady retired for the night, but Sindoor remained. She and Kohl exchanged words for a time, words that both affirmed his doubts and cast new light on them. The Lady went to bed, and so too did Kohl, yet he found no respite in sleep. Night turned to early morning. Kohl rolled on his mat. He paced and pondered in the dark, settling his mind. At last, an hour before dawn, he returned down the grand stair and waited at the base of the tower, before the Lady's throne. He sent a messenger to the top to bring the pair he wished to see.

"Oh joy," said Ranma, his wrists bound. "What more do you think you can do to us?"

Kohl's brow furrowed. "Leave them to me," he told the guards.

"We cannot turn them over to anyone but the Lady or the captain."

"The Lady is near," said Kohl. "She is sleeping. If you wake her with your refusal to submit, I think you know what she is capable of."

The guard gulped. He motioned to the others, and they departed, back up the tower, leaving Kohl alone with Akane and Ranma.

Snap! Ranma broke his bonds and took a defiant stance. "I could still put some hurt on you before Sindoor comes to save your ass."

"That would be unwise."

"Why?"

"Because alerting the Lady…" He took out a knife and sliced cleanly through Akane's rope. "…would mean I can't show you the way out."

"You're not serious!" said Akane. "Why?"

"You question my motives?"

"Absolutely," said Ranma. "You've been Sindoor's loyal dog the whole time. Give me a reason to think you'd betray your duty to her!"

"Because my duty is to the people, not to her! Not to the Lady, not even to another whom I might be loyal to. The Lady—she's not who we thought she was. Maybe a Sieve can keep us safe from her power, but not from your Riverfolk allies! They are many, and I hope never to see the Lady use her magic to defend us again! That kind of destruction, I think you'll agree, is power at a level no man should wield."

Ranma eyed him carefully. "I still don't trust you."

"Then let my actions earn your trust. Come." He motioned to them. "This way."

He led them back to the center stair and two levels below, for there were two Chambers of Magic's Coupling, and though one bathed in moonlight, exposed to the air, the other was sheltered, safe and intact. Just as Xiu had tried, hours ago, to ferry the pair out this way, Kohl showed Ranma and Akane to the trap door in the tower grounds, and they circled around, following the dead scar to where the tree line used to be.

"Link hands," said Kohl as they entered the Maze. "Only those who feel magic know the way through."

"No thanks," said Ranma, waving him off. "I think I can sense the way."

With ginger steps, they wove through the winding wood, and though Akane's eyes deceived her, confusing her strides, Ranma gently tugged on her hand and guided her to safety.

"Your Riverfolk friends, if they're still here, should be up the ridge," said Kohl.

"Thanks," said Ranma. "Bye now."

"Excuse me?"

"That means it's time we part ways, buddy. I'll hand it to you for getting us this far, but Akane and I—we're not staying around here. You know that."

"If I should return, the Lady would condemn me to death!"

"Not our problem."

An elbow jabbed the pigtailed boy in the gut. "Ranma!"

"Ow, what?"

"He got us free; the least we can do is show some kindness in return."

"Like what? I don't need a pet Sorcerer following me around."

"I'm not a pet," said Kohl.

"Figure of speech!"

A rustling. Iron arrowheads glinted in the moonlight. Amazon archers surrounded the group, holding them under the point of death.

"Hold!" Cologne trotted out from the trees, waving her stick to her men. "Hold, hold, we have friends here." She looked Ranma up and down. "Though sometimes they make things difficult."

"Good to see you, too, old bat."

Cologne sniffed. "And this one? He wears their clothing. Is he a friend, too?"

Ranma and Akane exchanged a glance. "For now," said Ranma.

"So be it. Come, your friends are sleeping, but we can get you food, water. Regain your strength. We depart at first light."

#

As dawn approached, a morning shower rolled in. Whether it was the wrath of Sindoor sent after them or a purely natural phenomenon, no one could say, but the Amazon war party, decimated though it was, trudged on. Only when the misty drizzle abated and the sun shined brightly did the brothers and sisters of Nerima breathe easy. The Amazons hiked along the top of the eastern ridge, looking down on the Sorcerer village with no sign of pursuit.

"Well, that's good," said Ranma, wringing out his shirt. "Real comforting, that, to know we won't have to run in soggy shoes."

A cat and a duck nipped at his heels, and Ranma, some inches shorter and pounds lighter than he had been overnight, jumped into Akane's arms, twitching. "Get away!" cried the pigtailed girl. "Get away, cat, get away!"

Shampoo purred and sauntered off, and at last, Ranma relaxed.

"Just think," said Akane, smiling, "when we get home, things will always be like this."

"Maybe so," said Ranma, finding his feet again, "but maybe they'll change, too."

The youngest Tendō girl touched her reddening cheeks.

Poink!

And Ranma's index finger poked her in the forehead. "Gotcha."

"What? No fair, Ranma!"

Snickering, Ranma peeled down his eyelid and stuck out his tongue.

"Come on, don't do that to me," said Akane, folding her arms. "Be serious for a moment, won't you? We've just made it to safety for the first time in I don't even know how long…"

But as Akane confessed her worries and fears to him, Ranma looked to the east. The sun rose above his eye line, and on the horizon, he spotted a distant shape, jutting of the flat of the Plateau. It was a mountain, he thought. A mountain and springs, cloaked in illusion. For now, they were leaving this place, but someday, Ranma hoped, he'd return—to drive the Sorcerers out, to partake of that water. If not, there'd always be something about him, an outer form of flesh and blood that wasn't really true.

"Honestly, Ranma, are you even listening?"

He twitched, but recovering his wits, he laughed it off. "Sorry, what was that?"

"Oh nothing," said Akane. "I was just thinking I should've poked you back when I had the chance."

"I don't have to pay attention to you to dodge if I feel like it."

"So you really weren't listening!"

"Ah, well, that is—"

A light shove punctuated Akane's displeasure. "Ranma!"

But where the two of them went on bickering, the lack of heat in their words showed their true feelings. It was a sentiment visible even to an outsider among them, even to Kohl.

"Saotome Ranma can never be the Sieve," the Lady had said the night before as she pondered on her throne. "Not while that girl remains by his side."

Kohl trailed the Nerima party, watching, for he didn't belong in that group, nor with the Amazons who flanked them. He was alone among these people, not just in body but in thought, too.

"It is a deluding poison they drink," Sindoor had said. "It doesn't last; it cannot last. Invariably, such bonds are broken, and when they are…"

She'd grinned.

"Then he can be Sieve."

Kohl'd shivered under the Lady's stare.

"That is what you must do, Kohl. Go with them, so the Riverfolk at our doorstep will leave us be. Watch the bond between them wither and fray, and when the time is right, snap it in two by your own hand. That is the duty I would entrust to you, a sacrifice befitting only one who has the capacity to give. It is not a command, merely…a request."

But it was a request he followed, not in service of the Lady but of the people, so they could be protected from whatever might possess them—to guarantee a future for them, for Tilaka, and lastly, for himself.

And so, with a cool spring breeze at their backs, the Amazon caravan marched east, to civilization, toward home, and to fairer fates beyond.

**End of Book One**

* * *

That concludes chapter seven and the first book of the _Identity_ trilogy, and I hope it has been as enjoyable for you as it has been for me in writing it. _Identity_ has really changed the way I think about writing, about the structure of stories and the compelling conflicts that drive characters every step of the way. It's that process of learning that I hope to continue, but for now, I think it best to take time, to reflect, and take a break. For the last year and a half or so, I've put the vast majority of my efforts into _Identity_, and I'm without a doubt pleased with the results, but I also think it important to remain fresh and keep perspective. This story, when complete, will be longer by far than anything else I've written, and as such it's an evolving piece. I want to exercise due diligence and make sure I do it right. I also have other ideas, other projects, that I want to start, to gain exposure, so that hopefully people who've seen _Identity_ pass by their update list might look on and reconsider. I really consider this piece, so far, to be my greatest work.

To that end, I will put _Identity_ aside for a while, but hopefully not for too long. When it does return, you can look forward to book two of the saga, _The Sorcerer Apprentice_, which begins with the eighth chapter, "No Place of Sanctuary." Ranma, his friends, and his rivals may have returned to Nerima, seemingly distant from the Sorcerers' influence, but the relationships between the cast as they are cannot stand. Though Ranma and Akane have declared their love openly, forces without conspire to keep them apart, and conflicts between them cannot abate with nothing but bold words. And Kohl, the Lady's advisor and captain, is always watching, waiting for the moment that Ranma can be turned into the Sieve again. It may be some ways off, but I hope for nothing but the best of this story.

Thanks as always for reading and for your comments.

Until next time,  
Muphrid  
May 6, 2011


	49. No Place of Sanctuary: Prelude

_The Sorcerer Apprentice_, second book of _Identity_, has begun! Saotome Ranma has returned home, but the Sorcerers' reach knows no limits. Those who've treaded on Sorcerer land cannot rest, for even in Japan, in Tōkyō and Nerima, there is…

* * *

**No Place of Sanctuary**

_A chapter in five acts_

In the clear night she walked in silence, creeping over arid soil. She carried no torch with her, for the moon's glow lit the village well. Its reflection of the sun sparkled in the river's waters and cast the spire of dark stone, the Lady's tower, half in light and half in shadow.

From the base of the waterfall, she made for a gap in the tree line—a gash it was, carved by the might of Lady Sindoor. The girl treaded over ashes, for the Lady herself had reduced all the wood and flesh in that place to burnt dust. That was the legacy of the battle from before, the second time Riverfolk had invaded Sorcerer soil. No one stood guard at the edge of the village. There was no wall to keep curious villagers in or wanton invaders out. There was only the Maze, the swirling currents of magic that the channelers in the tower maintained. To an untrained eye, the Maze would confuse the senses and spin a man in circles, but the rope-maker, even in that dull and insensitive body, knew how to defeat the illusion. She'd been trained to do so, a training reserved only for a trusted few.

Once free of the Maze, she met with others—like-minded souls who still had the privilege to wear the black cloth, the uniform of the Sorcerer Guard. The four tapped their iron-tipped staves on the ground in respect, but the rope-maker silenced them with a wave of her hand.

"Let's not attract undue attention," she said. "Are we ready? Have you been there? What is it like?"

"Bizarre," said one of their number. "They make machines of metal and stone. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was magic, too. Even the stories Hibiki told us can't really prepare you for what you'll see."

The rope-maker nodded. "Light the fire, then."

In safety outside the village, beyond the Maze, the rope-maker and her followers burned kindling in a small, improvised pit. This hid most of the direct light of the fire, and the rope-maker hoped the night would conceal the smoke. That was the extent of the precautions she could take.

Her four comrades sat in a circle around the fire, linking hands. From a pouch, the rope-maker showered white powder into the flames, and the scent tickled her nose. Such a ritual had only recently been rediscovered, and now they would attempt to cross water with it? A body of water as large and vast as the plateau itself? Unthinkable, unimaginable, yet the rope-maker would dare try it, all the same.

She stepped over her comrades' linked hands, as close to the fire and the center of the circle as she could bear. The four hummed separated intervals and tones, slowly coming into alignment and resonance for a harmonious chord. The rope-maker picked up a discarded battle staff, and then…

Then there was light.

There was light all over, from torches whose concealed flames wouldn't burn. There was noise—blaring, strange noises from mechanical beasts whose faces had only two bright eyes.

And up above, piercing the sky, was an orange tower with white stripes and a lattice framework, but of wood, stone, or metal the rope-maker couldn't say.

_So these people admire impressive structures, too,_ she thought. _It's nothing compared to the Lady's tower, but it's a landmark, something to find my way by._

That foreign land was awash with light. The incessant glow made so many stars faint, but the brightest of them remained clear to see. By the pole star she found her bearings. The rope-maker headed north and west along the sidewalk, ignoring the curious glances of passers-by. On the Lady's orders, the Sorcerer Guard had set foot in Japan, and the rope-maker's rebels had followed. In that faraway place, both sides sought the same thing: a potential new Sieve, a person of great power and interest to them—the outsider who wielded their magic.

The outsider Saotome Ranma.

* * *

This **Friday, March 30**, Ranma faces the task of returning to quiet life in Nerima, having become a warrior and a deadly weapon in his own right. _Identity_ begins anew with **No Place of Sanctuary Part I - Monday Again**.

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	50. Sanctuary I: Monday Again

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? ** At last, the war in China is over. It's time for Ranma and all those who battled the Sorcerers to try to find themselves in peace—at least, while peace is something they can still enjoy.

* * *

**Monday Again**

_Chapter Eight, Act One_

"_The pain you feel is in the heart. You can put it away if you choose to. You can feel nothing if you choose to. At that moment, the cares and worries of a thousand men will wash over you and fade into the black."_

The whispered words of a Sorcerer priest echoed in Ranma's mind. They kept him awake when the panda beside him snoozed away vigorously. It was night—the night of a full moon. At the time he'd heard the priest's words, he'd put all his energy into resisting them. No one would make him into their Sieve, their depraved means of sucking all the passion out of life and turning their village into some soulless dystopia.

_I'd swallow a bucket of acid and gag on it before accepting that sick task._

But the memories stuck with him all the same. He remembered those weeks in China all too clearly. He'd fought for his life and manhood in the cold rain over Jusenkyō. He found rooms upon rooms of people, condemned to sit on their knees and project illusions into the countryside. He watched unwilling villagers expose themselves to each other and commit acts procreation, but not pleasure.

And after doing his best to resist temptation, to exercise all due restraint, he'd spilled blood. It started with a couple: with the priest Henna in the mountain and her unfortunate test subject, who died mercifully before living too long as an abomination on humanity. Perhaps it was thirst-induced delirium that started him down the path, or a mute vision of—

Well, that didn't matter, for after the first, Ranma had killed dozens more. He unleashed his rage on those Sorcerers, on Keema, yet that brought him neither solace nor satisfaction. He was under no illusion of that. Killing those men might evoke a faint sense of justice done, but he'd never sought to punish them.

_Do what you have to do to survive; otherwise, let people be._ That was his maxim, his philosophy. It wasn't his fault if others got in his way, wanting to marry him or fight him. In that, he'd only ever responded appropriately—so he thought. That's why the number of the dead gave him no comfort or joy. He remembered it only to better understand himself.

_Forty-four._

Forty-four dead, and he knew all their faces. The first was Saffron. The second, Henna; the third, the poor Amazon who became a creature unspeakable. The rest were Sorcerers or Phoenix people—anyone who stood in his way. Some were young, others old. Man or woman, he made no distinction. How they died was less clear to him. Often enough he'd used his own fists as he had the magic of the Sorcerers, the powers he'd learned from them. Their magic was ruthlessly efficient, but he couldn't consider it an art. Arts are for self-discovery, for enlightenment and learning. An artist is a practitioner, a teacher, and he learns and improves himself from opponents who challenge him.

You can learn only so much from opponents who are dead, but their screams can stay with you ever after. Their faces can make closing your eyes to sleep a pointless, futile affair.

Ranma didn't take to futile affairs well.

Though safe in the Tendō home, far from the horrors of Qinghai Province, the disquiet in Saotome Ranma's heart wouldn't relent. Six days had passed since they'd arrived at Haneda Airport on the private Amazon charter, and when he couldn't find rest then, he dismissed it, but the sleeplessness wouldn't abate. To quiet his mind, he turned to someone unexpected. He rose from his futon, stretched his arms, and tip-toed over his mother, quietly sliding the door aside to leave. He moved through the house silently, escaping to the dojo walkway. The night had begun to recede, and the first signs of dawn seeped into the eastern sky. For this reason, he knew he'd disturb no one by heading to the dojo so early.

Not even the new resident there, the defector Kohl.

#

Though the party leaving the Sorcerer village had accepted Kohl for a time, any trust he'd earned from freeing Ranma and Akane didn't last. When the Amazons had completed their long retreat to the village, the three Speakers—the old hag Bindi, the balding Thanaka, and the utterly rational Surma—had ordered Kohl's detention and interrogation. He was a valuable member of Sindoor's regime, after all, and what intelligence he held had to be extracted as soon as possible.

At that, Kohl doused himself with hot water from a nearby pot. Wielding a staff from a fallen Sorcerer, the captain herself stood before them instead, repelling her would-be jailers with a shockwave of concussive force.

"I did not give myself to you for humiliation and torture," she snarled. "Treat me with respect or kill me in battle. I will tell you what you must know, but I won't be lashed and tortured like a petty prisoner!"

Amazon archers encircled Wuya, and it was all Ryōga and Mousse could do to keep Ranma from walking into that killzone himself. Wuya had crimes to answer for. She'd hurt people and shown cruelty. Ranma didn't like any Sorcerer he'd met; Kohl even less, Wuya even less than that, and to think she'd walked with them under false pretenses for days!

But to everyone's surprise, the Captain of the Guard had a defender. A single girl—one who'd been harmed by her yet stood at her side all the same.

"Regardless of what her name is or what she looks like, Wuya helped Ranma and me escape," said Akane. "We can afford to show her some courtesy, to see if she can tell us what we need to know in good faith, can't we?"

The Amazon elders conferenced with each other. Shampoo ran out, shouting at the archers in Chinese, but in the end, it was Cologne who made the decision, whose final word set Kohl's fate.

"The people's warriors will not be used for personal interests, Child," she said.

The archers lowered their bows, and Wuya, in turn, let a hand off her staff, planting it upright in the ground instead.

#

True to his word, Kohl had answered the Amazons' many questions about the Sorcerers and their forces. Kohl guessed Sindoor would take the time to rebuild and regroup, that if she didn't continue to pursue Ranma, she would seek another Sieve, though how she would choose such a person, Kohl couldn't say. In return for his cooperation, Kohl was allowed to accompany Ranma to Japan, safely out of the reach of Sindoor…and where he couldn't turn double agent or hurt the Amazons. Kohl had made a home in the Tendō dojo, largely on Akane's generosity. Unsettling it was to have such a staunch adversary living within the same walls, but it could be useful, too. Who better than their captain to ask for insight on Sorcerer magic? Granted, it took a healthy dose of pride-swallowing for Ranma to even consider that notion.

That was nearly a week ago, after no small handful of sleepless nights already.

"Sit," said Kohl, offering his futon. "Center yourself, and we can begin."

Even for this stranger, their ritual had become something of a habit. Kohl, for his part, preferred to stay a man if he could. Well, that much Ranma couldn't blame him for, but it was still a bit perverse no matter how one looked at it. Born a girl, he lived a man's life instead. Going back to being a girl, a woman, would be just as strange. In large part, Ranma ignored the matter. It wasn't his problem. This Sorcerer wanted to be called _Kohl_, and Ranma could do that. Sometimes. It made no difference to him either way.

"Why are you here?" asked the Sorcerer.

"Same as usual," said Ranma. _Thought you would've figured that out by now._

"You think I wake up at dawn to help you meditate and ask you that question _literally_?"

"You wake up at dawn anyway."

Kohl rubbed his forehead, letting out a breath. "Why is it you think you can't sleep?"

_Gee, if I knew that, do you think I'd be here? _

"In the Guard, we're taught to recognize our emotions and understand them. They give us power, but they expose us to great danger and peril. They are unnatural. They disturb us when our minds should be clear. By acknowledging the existence of such disturbances, we make it easier for the Sieve to find them in us and relieve us of difficulties."

Ranma rolled his eyes. "I'm not here for your philosophizing on the nature of magic or whatever, Darth Wuya."

Kohl blinked.

"Never mind," said Ranma. "Remind Akane to rent you the collected works of George Lucas on VHS. It'll really help with these conversations."

Kohl stared.

"What? You need me to explain video rental? VHS?"

"Who is George Lucas?"

Ranma groaned. "Forget it. Look, I don't care about your ramblings. You want to help us? You want to help me? Tell me what I need to know. Don't beat around the bush to do it."

"Are you _always_ this impatient?"

"Uh, yeah?"

Sighing, Kohl took his battle staff and twirled it idly back and forth, tapping the staff heads on the floor in an alternating motion. "You needn't answer any questions aloud or to me. You need only think and consider them. You were almost broken into Sieve. You became attuned to the energies and emotions within others. Is that what you feel that keeps you awake at night?"

It was true—Ranma glimpsed such a state of mind for a moment, a tenuous connection to the Sorcerer village and everything in it. That was a disorienting mass, a cavalcade of fears and anxieties that all melded together. It was overwhelming, yes, but what haunted his dreams was far more specific.

"No," said Ranma. "Not at all."

"Killing, then," said Kohl. "I've trained men. I know the thought of taking lives and executing it affects them. It's something we seldom had to do before your Riverfolk attacked again."

Ranma stared at the wall in silence.

"Let us try a measuring technique," said Kohl. "Close your eyes."

Ranma glared.

"You fear me—in this body—so much?"

Taking a breath, Ranma shut his lids, the eyes underneath totally still.

"Each expression of ki magic has a particular association with your state of mind," said Kohl. "You seem fond of ice. Show me what you can do."

That was easy enough. Ranma knew what ice would take from him: cold, steady concentration, unshakable even in the heat of battle.

A column of ice shot from Ranma's hand, sticking in the wall with a thud. All the while, Ranma's eyes stayed shut. "Well?" he said. "What does that tell you?"

Kohl said nothing, but there was a sound of ripping fabric.

"Hey, Wuya, I'm talking to you."

"It tells me nothing without something to compare it to!" snapped Kohl. "Now, flame should be easy to command with your skills. Make some fire."

Fire, huh? That Ranma had never experimented with. What would cause a spark from him? Anger and rage, right? Those were emotions people associated with fire. Exploring the tunnels of Phoenix Mountain, where Sorcerer and Phoenix tribesman alike attacked him senselessly, when he needed to find someone, to be somewhere—yes, that did make him angry.

Ranma turned his palm upward, and his hand bathed in heat. He cupped it, guiding the ball of fire he felt, and threw the flames ahead.

Ka-BLAM! There was a stomping sound and a faint smell of smoke.

"Outsider!" cried Kohl. "Are you doing that on purpose?"

"Doing what?" asked Ranma, his eyes shut.

Kohl sighed. "Nothing." His voice grew distant, particularly over the sounds of his footsteps. "Sorcerers can manipulate nature as well, lightning in particular. Some with certain affinities are better than others. Try it."

Lightning? What emotion could possibly be linked to lightning? Ranma's brow furrowed as he contemplated the question. Thinking of the nature of it—when charges separate, the force between them builds and builds until it breaks through the air and shocks everything in the bolt's path—Ranma could only guess what he should infer from that. Building determination, perhaps, in retaliation for previous wrongs. Yes, that he knew well. He'd walked all over that village, looking for a way out of his prison. He'd become more and more frustrated over time, for the village lacked a material fence or wall to demolish, something to destroy with his pent-up energies. They'd built and built until he could contain them no longer.

ZAP!

There was a smell of charring, and Kohl's berated Ranma in Chinese curse words. "Outsider! Are you trying to kill me?"

"Uh, no?"

"Open your eyes!"

Ranma blinked, and the damage was clear to him. Cut, dangling threads marked a wet spot on Kohl's sleeve from where an ice spike had cut him. Burns marred his pant leg, and Kohl rubbed at a starry char pattern on his chest.

"Why didn't you move after the first couple times?" asked Ranma.

"I did!"

Ah. That was problematic, wasn't it? "So that told you something, right?"

"Perhaps it would've if I hadn't been afraid for my life!"

Ranma rolled his eyes. "So easily frightened, aren't you, Wuya?"

Scowling, Kohl made for the door.

"Where are you going?" Ranma demanded.

"To get hot water! If you're going to attack me while I give counsel, I'd like to be able to defend myself!"

"But what did any of it mean?"

"Ice is still your strong suit, but only you can know what emotion elicits that power. Maybe you're most comfortable with ice—or with the feeling that underlies it. You decide." Kohl trotted down the walkway to the main house, leaving Ranma alone in the dojo.

_Sounds like a lot of pseudo-psychological junk to me._ Ranma huffed. Really, if that was the best Kohl could offer, Ranma would've been better off back in bed. For a stoic hardass captain, Kohl's advice in this matter had proved far too touchy-feely for Ranma's taste. His emotions—or whatever Kohl thought he meant by that—weren't the problem. Ranma knew how to control them, how to control himself. If anything, that's why he liked ice. Nothing else was as steady or ordered. The ice was a wall, and it could hold anything else out.

For that reason, Ranma closed his eyes once more and focused. The air went drafty and cold. A frosty film formed on the floor, the walls, crinkling with every inch it covered. The ice was his bulwark against the faces he didn't want to see, the anger that'd driven him to kill, but there was one thing that could pierce his frozen shell. As footsteps approached, he steeled himself, for they didn't belong to the captain—he knew Kohl's rhythmic, determined stride. Rather, the person who came up the covered walkway hesitated at the door to the dojo, and as Ranma opened his eyes to see her, she peered in cautiously, not wishing to disturb.

"Am I intruding?" asked Akane. "I guess you knew I was close, huh?"

"It's all right," said Ranma, rising. "I was just thinking how Wuya's teachings really make no sense."

"His name is Kohl."

"When he looks like that, sure. Or I guess we've started calling him _Kohl-kun_, right?" His voice kicked up a register. "As in, 'Kohl-kun, can I get you something to drink? Kohl-kun, can I wash your clothes? Kohl-kun, can I get you some cotton candy? You've never had that before, right? ' "

Narrowing her eyes, Akane stepped through the doorway, clad in a teal nightgown and fuzzy slippers. She leaned on the doorframe, crossing her arms, and watched Ranma from the corner of her eye. "You know, you do a good impression of a girl because you know how it feels and what it sounds like, right?"

"Shut up."

"Just observing," she said cheerfully. "And really, I treat him exactly like I treat you. You don't want to be called _Ranko-chan_ every time you turn into a girl, do you?"

"That's different," said Ranma.

"How?"

"I wasn't _born_ a girl."

Akane bit her lip. "It is a bit strange, isn't it."

"Is that what you came here to say?"

"Hm? Oh, no, I just heard a little of the commotion and thought I'd visit before I went on my morning run."

Ranma raised an eyebrow. "Dressed like that?"

"I'm going to change! I just came down here first. That's not a crime, is it?"

Not a crime, no, but that she'd come down before anything else told Ranma more than he wanted to know.

"You're not sleeping still," she observed.

He shook his head.

"Maybe we should go to Doctor Tōfū?"

"It's not like I'm sick."

Akane touched a hand to the ice on the dojo wall, feeling the moisture between her thumb and forefinger. "So you do this for fun? This could cause water damage, you know. Father's told you that."

_Yeah, I know._

"Why don't you come on my run with me?"

Ranma's head spun around. "You want me to what?"

"Come run with me. It'll be fun and get your mind off things."

He scoffed. "I'd smoke you."

"It's not about bursts of speed; it's distance and endurance."

"I'd still smoke you."

"Prove it," said Akane. "Prove it to me; I'd like to see that. If you are that much faster than me, it can only help. They say the perfect partner is someone whose pace pushes you to be a little better, right?"

Partners?

"Ah, that's not—" Akane looked away, her cheeks filling with a tinge of red. "That's not what I meant. Just, um, think about it, won't you?"

Ranma nodded absently.

"All right. See you at breakfast, okay?" She disappeared down the steps, and Ranma listened to her footfalls all the way down. "Good morning, Kohl-kun!" came her distant voice, but the defector didn't answer her, at least not verbally. This Ranma knew. He listened for that, too.

That was the problem Akane posed to him. When she came along, all his focus evaporated like water spilled on a heated pan.

"Well?" Kohl returned, in girl form this time, tapping the staff on the floor as he entered. "Shall we continue?"

Ranma rose. With a deliberate step, she slid across the frozen floor and hit the walkway in two bounding strides. "I think I'm spent for today," he said.

"So, what now?" asked Kohl. "I'm supposed to go back and make my home in an icebox?"

Nobody said life was easy, did they? But really, Kohl had little to worry about. He could sit outside in the warmth of the sun, for that April day was mild and without wind. Ranma took note of it as he headed back to the house—a serene day with clear blue skies. Even in China, the sky had been blue. It was tempting to think faraway places would look different, that the arid skies of the Tibetan Plateau would show something sinister, a subtle hue to portend what dwelt there, but it wasn't so. For that reason, Ranma couldn't look to the sky and feel wholly safe.

Leaving the dojo, he jumped atop the estate wall and sat there until a girl in running shorts and a pink headband emerged from the gate, taking off down the quiet morning road. Once inside, Ranma checked the clock in the kitchen. If it took Akane more than twenty minutes to complete her run…

Well, Ranma didn't want to think about that.

"I don't think you should worry." The eldest Tendō sister, the dutiful Kasumi, lit the stovetop with a click of a turning knob. "Akane can protect herself, if you really think there's danger out there."

Danger? Ranma huffed. If he _really_ thought it was dangerous for her to go, he wouldn't be waiting around in the kitchen for her. For that matter, it would make this new habit of his feel somewhat justified.

"It's not unusual to worry about someone you love," said Kasumi. "Or who loves you in return. I think it's sweet, as long as you don't let it bother you too much."

If anything bothered Ranma, it was that—what Kasumi said about love and loving and lovey-dovey goodness and whatever else would go with it. It was enough to make a man into mush, and what was worse, _everyone_ in the house knew about it!

"Oh, Ranma, there you are," said the Saotome matriarch, Nodoka. "Seeing Akane-chan off on her run again? You really will make a wonderful husband to her!"

Not that talk of Ranma and Akane's betrothal was unusual in the Tendō house, but since returning from China, the matter had enjoyed renewed attention, for Akane had declared her love for Ranma openly and for all to hear.

Really, what was she thinking? Was she trying to get them married right away?

No, no, that wasn't it. To justify her presence on the journey to China, Akane had to admit her feelings. There'd been no other way about it at the time, but since they'd returned, her confession had made life awkward and uncomfortable. Hardly a waking hour went by without Nodoka waxing blissfully in motherly joy or Sōun celebrating the implications for the dojo and the schools. That alone would be enough to keep a man up at night—not like anyone ever asked what Ranma wanted. One had to remember these families saw fit to knock him out and dress him in a tuxedo for a wedding he'd known nothing about.

They didn't have to knock Akane out, though. At least, not that time. If she'd had reservations about the affair, the promise of Drowned Man water for Ranma had persuaded her to dismiss them. Evidently she must've had few reservations at all.

Akane, for her part, hadn't fed the refreshed marriage fervor, but she hadn't helped shoot it down, either, leaving Ranma in an awkward position. Though he could argue strongly against a wedding, Akane couldn't pretend to be uninterested or indifferent. Perhaps if they'd come to some agreement or understanding on the matter, Ranma would've known what was safe to say.

But that would require talking about it—something neither Ranma nor Akane were willing to do while everyone else was.

Akane returned from her run a minute ahead of schedule, and half an hour after that, she entered the dining room for breakfast. The combined Tendō and Saotome families, seated for their breakfast, took particular notice to some aspects of her attire—in particular, a pair of black stockings and a leopard-spotted skirt.

"My, my!" said Nabiki. "Dressed to please your lover, Akane?"

"I'm dressed to go to the library," said Akane, taking her seat beside Ranma. "That's all."

"But you're going with Ranma-kun, aren't you?"

"The same as yesterday."

"You weren't wearing _that_ yesterday."

As irritating as Nabiki's remarks could be, Ranma knew she was right about that. While away in China, Ranma and Akane had missed the end of the final school term for the year. Their continued education depended on making up the work they'd missed and passing end-of-year exams before the next term started, so they'd spent an inordinate amount of time studying since their return.

Thus, Akane's attire hadn't really been the focus of his thoughts. What she'd worn the day before escaped him, but he took note of the skintight dark nylons and how Akane wiggled her toes as she sat beside him. The stockings extended halfway past her knees, leaving a finger's-width gap of skin to the lip of her skirt. There was a name for that, right? It was the kind of fetish lonely geeks who obsessed over line drawings and pictures of women would know well, and at that moment, Ranma was having a hard time denying the logic of it.

"See?" said Nabiki. "Ranma-kun approves."

The tips of Akane's ears went bright red. "Sister!"

"Now, now," said Sōun, holding both hands out to calm the girls. "Akane is well-dressed today, and beyond that is none of our concern."

"Thank you, Father," said Akane.

"It's none of our concern because we have a wedding to plan! Isn't that right, Saotome-kun?"

Akane and Ranma bowed their heads in defeat.

"Without a doubt!" said Genma, happily cleaning a bowl of rice porridge. "As far as I'm concerned, it should've happened as soon as we got back!"

"Why's that, Pop?" asked Ranma. "Aren't you a little full on bamboo to stand a wedding feast?"

Genma shivered. "I don't know what you mean. I'm just talking about ensuring the future. That's all I've ever done for you, Boy!"

"And ensure the future you did, Uncle," said Akane. "By playing with the other pandas outside the Amazons' village instead of helping us with the Sorcerers. Chewing on bamboo shoots was just what we needed."

Nodoka shot her husband a dirty look. "Is that true, Dear?"

Ranma scoffed. "It's not like Pop to run away from a fight, to overextend himself by promising me to two different girls or use his martial arts knowledge to make an entire school of thievery. There's _no way_ he would do anything like that."

Instinctively, Nodoka reached over her shoulder, but her fingers grasped at air. "Oh dear," she said, puzzled. "Now where on earth did I put that sword…?"

Genma rose from the table. "Ah, I'm sure—I'm sure-I'll help you find it! It's probably upstairs!"

"Why would it be upstairs—ah, Dear? Where are you going?"

The departure of his parents gave Ranma a brief reprieve, but Tendō Sōun wasn't about to let up on the matter. "We should have a ceremony right away!" cried Sōun. "It will be wonderful, marvelous—"

"Aren't you going to ask either of us what we have to say about it?" said Ranma.

"We already know Akane's in favor of the idea," said Sōun. "Isn't that right, Akane?"

At Ranma's side, Akane stared into her lap, blushing with embarrassment. "That's not exactly what I said, Father!"

"And Ranma-kun," he went on, "you return Akane's feelings, don't you?"

"That's not what we're talking about!" said Ranma.

"Oh, I do hope you'll name your first child after my grandfather," said Sōun. "He truly had a wonderful name."

Ranma went cross-eyed. "Children!"

"But Father," said Kasumi, "what if it's a girl?"

"I'm sure that would suit Grandfather just as well," he said. "He always had strange habits. I remember, as a young boy, I caught him trying on Grandmother's kimono. After that, he always brought me sweets from Nagano as a price for my continued silence. I was all too happy to oblige."

That was a bit too much for Ranma to hear. He rose from his place at the table and made for the hall. "I'm going ahead."

"Ah, Ranma, wait!" said Akane.

But the pigtailed martial artist was already gone. He slipped on his shoes at the threshold and dashed down the walkway to the main gate.

"Hold on a second!"

As the youngest Tendō sister ran after him, a bag in one hand, a coat in the other. Ranma stuck his foot in the gate, holding it open for her.

"Honestly!" she said, slipping through the opening. "I thought you were going to leave me behind."

_Not a chance,_ thought Ranma.

Akane slipped on her coat—a loose, beige piece with large, fuzzy buttons. She topped off this dressing maneuver with a black beret. "What's the hurry today?" asked Akane.

He shrugged, falling into step beside her. "Do you really want to keep listening to that? How we should get married right away and so on?"

"Not a chance."

"Me neither! I don't understand it. I mean, I know what you said, but it's not like you came down the stairs and yelled, 'I'm in love with Ranma, so that's why I have to go to China! ' "

Akane winced. "That's actually pretty close to what happened."

"It is?"

She nodded sheepishly.

And that's what Ranma couldn't understand. Even in his most desperate moment—cradling Akane's lifeless body at Jusendō—Ranma had lacked the nerve or the courage to shout a confession of love to the winds, hadn't he? That Akane could, that she would choose to speak her heart to the world when she had the chance to reconsider, to run away instead—maybe that meant she was the truly courageous one. They both knew what would come after such an open admission, yet Akane found the will to do it anyway.

Nevertheless, the state of things made Ranma uneasy. With every step Akane took, he felt the onus of response fall on him. And how to respond! Some months in the past, there must've been a pigtailed boy who'd have laughed at the notion this strong-willed girl at his side would fall in love with him. At best there'd been moments of mutual respect punctuated by bouts of childish insults. Beyond that, Ranma had only ever been himself. If some people found him attractive, that never seemed like an overriding concern to Akane. While she surely respected his skills, that wouldn't make her kneel before him or blind her with adoration.

In short, what this girl could fall in love with truly mystified him, and in the end, she still acted like herself, like Akane. She wasn't jumping all over him like Shampoo would. If anything had changed, she seemed strangely calm, and that threw him off-balance, too.

"Something on your mind?" asked Akane.

He blinked. She was looking right at him. How long had he failed to notice that?

"You've been staring," she said. "Is there something on my face?"

Something so simple to laugh about might've settled Ranma's nerves. As it was, he could only speak the truth. "You just seem to be taking all this really well," he said.

She looked to the sky. "We made it home, right? We're safe, you're alive, and I told someone who loves me I love him back." She smiled. "That's good, isn't it? I mean, as long as I don't wake up tomorrow in a wedding dress, I think we'll be just fine."

Ranma raised an eyebrow. "So you don't want to get married right away?"

"You want to?"

"I—no, I mean—" He made a face.

"It would be too soon," said Akane. "I mean, just a month or two ago, we were fighting about you going to live with Auntie, and now, here we are. I like you a lot, Ranma, but I want to know this fluttering feeling in my chest isn't going to give way to me getting mad for no reason or anything like that."

Ranma looked at her from the corner of his eye. "You feel that, too?"

"All the time! Oh, I think I spent ten minutes after doing my hair this morning. I just kept picking and picking at it, wondering if you'd notice something was wrong! Isn't that silly?"

Putting his hands behind his head, Ranma looked to the canal, hiding a grin. "You have hair? I thought that was a wig."

"Oh shush!" said Akane, lightly jabbing him with her elbow in mock anger. "I'm glad, though. That's what I like about you. I feel like I can tell you anything, and you won't laugh at me."

Ranma scoffed. _Are you sure you're not talking about someone else? _

"Not too much, I mean," she added. "Not when it counts."

Ranma was impressed. Akane had done some hard thinking about what was between them—that much he could tell—but there was one question still on his mind. "If that's how you felt, why did you go along with the wedding before? I mean, too soon is too soon, water or not."

Stopping in place, Akane pursed her lips. "I guess I thought not everyone who's in an arranged marriage falls in love by the time of the wedding. We wouldn't have to act like we were married before getting to know each other that way."

"What way?"

She twitched, averting her gaze. "Like, um, people who'd want to get married…"

Like people who'd _chosen_ to marry on their own—that's what she meant. Most kids their age wouldn't worry about marriage. They'd see movies or visit amusement parks. They'd go on dates, spending time with one another because they enjoyed the company. Only after that would they consider a more serious commitment, a partnership for the rest of their lives.

"Well, we don't really need to worry about that right now, do we?" said Akane. "Besides, I'm sure Ukyō's waiting for us. She's probably wondering what's taking us so long."

Right, they had time, and there were other, more pressing concerns. They could go on living their lives, not worrying about the future. In that, Akane was wise—a lot wiser and smarter than Ranma had been. She was willing to put what she wanted aside. She _did_ want something from him, didn't she? Why else would she wear those eye-catching nylons? Dignified and innocent, yet alluring all the same—that was her way. It was a subtle invitation that she would never speak of, and only he could choose to act on it.

But would he?

He'd already made that decision. He'd made it as he held Akane's lifeless body on the slopes of Jusendō. Thinking her gone, he lamented the happy days they would've spent together but didn't because he didn't try hard enough, because he could never admit what he felt without mangling it somehow. She came back to him; she gave him a second chance, and it would be nothing short of foolishness to wait another minute, to delay any longer. Foolishness was what'd made him wait as long as he had; it was long past time to change that.

"Forget the library," he said. "Losing one day with that won't hurt us."

"What do you mean?"

"We've got all day, just the two of us. It's, uh—well, it's a date, right?"

Her eyes lit up. "You mean that?"

"Sure, why not?"

Akane looked into his eyes, and never had Ranma seen a more brilliant smile. "Okay!"

#

Ranma wasn't a total stranger to taking a girl on a date, but with Akane, the only time he could remember was under vastly different circumstances. That was a fiasco with Nabiki taking over the engagement and slowly milking Ranma and Akane of both money and sanity in the process. In the end, Ranma had taken Akane to lunch as a way to make up, but even that wasn't what he'd originally planned.

It was, however, the fondest memory he had of dining at a French café. Never mind that it was also the _only_ time he'd ever been to one, too.

Having left just after breakfast, Ranma judged it too early to eat lunch, though. They would have to find something to do for the morning. What would Akane like? He felt he should know the answer to that or else consider himself truly ignorant and unobservant. How could he be attracted to a girl without having any inkling what she liked?

So Ranma thought harder. What else did people do on dates? This he could answer reasonably well, for though he'd only taken Akane out once, he had other experiences to draw on. He'd manipulated Kunō a few times, seeing movies and going to dinner to make a pass at a wishing sword or convince him to beat that ditzy cheerleader. There was the time he bought Ukyō's stalker Tsubasa flowers and such. Then again, Tsubasa turned out to be a guy, too.

To his horror, Ranma realized he may well have been on more dates with guys than girls.

"Why don't we just go to the station and see if anything jumps out at us?" Akane suggested.

Indeed, at the train station, they could browse ads for nightclubs they'd have to sneak into (had they been open at that time of day) or browse a map of the city for landmarks like clueless tourists. Granted, Ranma hadn't lived in Tōkyō long enough to have visited every point of interest or historic spot. Judging by how Akane pored over the map at the station, touching her fingertip to the list of landmarks as she studied them one by one, she hadn't seen some of the local attractions, either.

"It's weird, isn't it?" she observed. "I've never even heard of half of these places."

Wherever they went, there would be people. You can't go far in Tōkyō without a mass of humanity surrounding you—businessmen, transit workers, and more, all concerned with the next trashcan to clean or what to buy their children for upcoming birthdays. Ranma sensed the pervasive preoccupation in the air as travelers and commuters went about their business, but this feeling he dismissed. He was projecting what he thought people felt as he watched them walk by. There was nothing more to it.

And that's where he would've left the matter, were it not for a sudden tinge of resentment, of anger.

"You know, I've never been to Tōkyō Tower," said Akane. "You think maybe we should—"

He took Akane by the wrist and pulled her to his side.

"Hey! What was that for?"

"Quiet!" he hushed her. "Something's not right."

"What isn't?"

A good question. Ranma scanned the station lobby, watching a middle-aged woman check her purse as she walked through a turnstile. The source of the disquiet eluded him, but he was certain it existed.

Why?

Why should he be certain if he didn't think he could feel what others felt, if he didn't think he'd become the Sorcerers' Sieve, even in part?

_Just jumpy I guess._ Gently, he released Akane's wrist and pushed the troublesome thoughts away. Looking at the walls, listening to the idle chatter in the station drowned out his anxieties.

"It's hard to come off your guard, isn't it?" asked Akane. "To come from China back home, I mean."

If that was all it was, Ranma would be over it in no time. "I wouldn't worry about it," he said.

"Good, because I think I found the perfect place to go today." She pointed out a red flyer taped to the wall, and Ranma studied it cautiously.

"A martial arts exhibition?" he read.

#

While schoolchildren enjoyed a brief recess before the beginning of the next school year, a dojo out of Itabashi—the neighboring ward to the east of Nerima—had arranged an exhibition at one of their nearby high schools, using the gymnasium to seat spectators and hold several matches in parallel. After a short train ride, Ranma and Akane found the school simmering with interest. A small crowd milled about the outside of the gym, with various school clubs providing refreshments, snacks, and even some musical entertainment.

"Not bad for a local exhibition," Ranma observed. "Not even a tournament, yet they have a pretty good turnout."

"I think Father's told me about these people," said Akane. "They're practitioners of the Flying Dragon School, so I bet there'll be a lot of acrobatics and fancy moves. That's probably why even an exhibition like this is popular."

Ranma huffed. "A fancy name doesn't impress me. You think they'll take an unplanned challenger?"

"I don't think you want to show people up at their own event."

"How do you know I'll show them up?"

"Let's just say it's hard to imagine anyone else doing what you're capable of," she answered. "Besides, I'd like to see how these people run the show without interfering. Maybe we could run something like it in the future, yeah?"

They could?

As in, together?

_Oh yeah, we're actually considering that. No need to stutter or freak out. Not a bit._

Akane realized what she'd said and abruptly changed the subject. "Looks like people are going inside. I guess we should find a seat?"

They cut through the crowd, entering an indoor basketball court with mats dividing it into thirds. Ranma and Akane took seats near half-court with an exhibition match on the center mat already underway. True to their reputation, these Flying Dragon practitioners—two high-school age girls by the looks of them—were keen on aerial maneuvers. They engaged one another in mid-air during 720-degree spins, trading jabs and kicks while holding onto one another for advantage and support. When they fell to the floor, they stuck their landings and continued their mutual assaults on the ground.

"Just in time, huh?" said Akane. "The light-haired girl is pretty fast."

_I'd run rings around her,_ thought Ranma, but objectively speaking, Akane was right. On the far side of the mat, a tall girl with unnaturally blonde hair took a defensive pose. Though bigger than her opponent, she was lithe and smart. She struck and retreated in rhythm, knowing well that a sustained offensive attack should be reserved for a position of definite advantage—a lesson bigger men and women were wont to forget. Her opponent, a dark-haired, shorter girl, was almost an image of Ranma's female body in terms of size and frame. She pressed the attack, knowing well that if she let up, her opponent's longer reach would dictate the pacing of the match. On that broad, strategic level, it was a well-played bout on both sides.

Ranma breathed out, and the tension in his body—tension he'd gained as soon as he and Akane agreed to go to the train station—evaporated. Beside him, Akane was engrossed in the match, and that was good. It calmed him. Out of everything else in the world, this was what the two of them had in common—a mutual love and appreciation for martial arts. Indeed, Akane's idea of making a new friend was to invite her to the dojo for a bout of sparring, wasn't it? Not a lot of people would do that, but Akane would smile kindly and offer her hand in friendship again and again. That's how she was, and Ranma loved her for it.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "You're staring again. I thought you wanted to watch the match."

_That's not all I want out of this day,_ he thought, but he restrained himself. "I don't need long to figure these guys out," he said.

Akane laughed to herself. "Careful, Ranma. I know what you're thinking."

"Oh, you're psychic now?"

"You want to go down there, fight them with their own techniques, and show how much you've picked up in just a couple minutes of watching," she said. "You've always learned new styles so fast. I wish I could do that."

She was right about one thing: it was tempting to go down there, but not to demonstrate what he'd learned of the Flying Dragons' arts. The two girls on the center mat knew their stuff—you'd expect nothing less from the first event of the day—but their techniques and strategies were clinical in nature. Precise and clean, Ranma could imagine them drawn up in a manual exactly as he saw them that day. They lacked something. Improvisation, perhaps? Every martial artist put his own spin on a technique. If a half-turn of the foot was prescribed for a kick, maybe they'd spin three-quarters of the way around instead, or on their heel instead of the ball of the foot. Such adjustments—or mistakes—would naturally evolve through fighting a variety of opponents, not just one's peers in training.

They'd come about through fighting for something, not just practicing art.

The Sorcerers were like that, too. They'd spent so long just training against one another that when Ranma fought them, few could stand in his way. The ones who resisted—Wuya, most of all—used magic as the equalizer, the crutch to support a fighting technique ill-adapted for real combat. In Ranma's hands, such powers just made him all the more unstoppable.

Akane had seen that. She'd watched him fight Wuya in Saffron's chambers; she knew how visceral and savage he could be, yet it bothered her not to sit at his side. For that, he was thankful, and when the two combatants on the center mat ended their battle, meeting in the middle to bow for the audience, Ranma said to himself a little prayer: that no one in this audience or fighting on the mats that day would know what it meant to be in real combat, in battles where life and death were at stake. For those who knew it already, let them never witness such horrors again.

Especially Akane.

#

The exhibition was an all-day affair, but Ranma and Akane left at a quarter to one, looking for lunch. The selection of restaurants in Itabashi wasn't exotic by any stretch of the imagination, but Akane picked out a small Vietnamese soup shop on the way back to the station, and that seemed a valid choice, considering Ranma had forgotten his wallet.

"It's all right," said Akane. "I'll pick this one up, but it means you'll owe me next time, okay?"

_In more ways than one,_ thought Ranma. Not that his pockets were oozing with yen, but a tiny foreign restaurant on the corner of a busy intersection wasn't what he'd had in mind to impress Akane. By all appearances she didn't mind, yet Ranma had to wonder—did a soup shop where one can hear the chefs babbling to each other in some unintelligible bastardization of Thai, French, and Chinese all shunted into a blender really make for good background noise on a date? Probably not, in Ranma's judgment, and he apologized for the chaos behind them, yet Akane all too understanding.

"It doesn't matter to me where we are or what's going on around us," she said. "This is really much more than I could've asked for. I don't need you to impress me, Ranma. I'm just happy to be here with you, to have the chance to do something normal like this."

Normal, huh? It would take some getting used to—seeing Akane across a restaurant table, smiling pleasantly like there was nothing wrong with the world. No doubt he'd enjoy getting used to it, but still, it amazed him.

The waiter brought out two bowls of steaming broth, filled with warped, thin pieces of beef. They were broad, like leaves, and to Ranma, they looked like they might be a little raw, as if the heat of the soup should cook them. Ranma and Akane divided a plate of bean sprouts to stuff into their bowls, and on the whole, it was a warming meal for a mild, peaceful day.

"There's nothing better than being home, is there?" asked Akane.

Home. Indeed, with affairs between him and Akane becoming settled, Ranma could really think of their house as a home—maybe for longer than he'd ever imagined. Inside, he chastised himself for the thought. Was that really what people considered on their real date? Already thinking about the future without going through the present? No doubt it was a silly daydream, but on reflection, he judged it more sensible than originally thought. Though this lunch was only their second date, Ranma and Akane weren't strangers. They knew each other—quite well, in Ranma's opinion, for just under a year together. The realization inspired confidence in him, the confidence to dream big about the future and family and everything else. No doubt a lot could change in just a few years. Akane would grow into a woman, and that thought he quickly shuffled away, lest he get too excited thinking about what changes to her body that would entail.

In all truth, there was ample time for such thoughts and dreams, and as sparse clouds rolled by, casting the window in brief shadow, Ranma reflected on that issue: the transitory nature of things, of time. Coming home was a welcome respite, and if he had the choice, he would stay and enjoy it forever with the girl across from him as company, but he couldn't shake the feeling of deeds left undone or the faces of fallen foes. There was still business to attend to in China—at some point or another, much as he might want to leave it be.

"I wish it could last," he said. "I'll have to go back sometime, though—to Jusenkyō, that is."

"Why?"

"Because," he said. Wasn't that obvious?

"This is about water still? I told you that doesn't bother me."

There was a litany of reasons, more than he could get into. For his cure, yes, but even without that, the Sorcerers were dangerous, twisted, and perverted.

But there was more to it than that. He stared intently across the table, at the girl who sat with him, looking pretty and clean. It was a far cry from the girl who'd come to find him in Mount Phoenix, or who knelt beside him as he lay bleeding in the Chambers of Magic's Doubling. She'd worn little more than dusty rags. She'd been scratched, cut, and beaten.

He quickly shoved the image out of his mind. "It's not just about water. Do you think it's a good thing for those guys to have control of Jusenkyō and do whatever they please?"

"Of course not," said Akane, but she regarded him with an intent, scrutinizing gaze. Leaning forward, she continued. "But I do wonder—Ranma, why did you tell the Sorcerers Saffron was alive when you knew what really happened to him?"

He scoffed. "I didn't have any choice; you're saying I should've just taken whatever they'd do to me right off the bat?"

"No, not at all. It's human to be concerned about your own safety first and not so much about what's going on in the outside world, isn't it?"

What was she saying? Akane would never put herself before anyone else. She surely knew that, too. Trying to excuse what he'd done in desperation, in trying to buy time…

That meant she knew Ranma was no saint and was trying to get him to say it aloud.

"I don't want to talk about this," said Ranma, pushing his bowl away and leaving the chopsticks to rattle within. "I know I didn't think about what would happen to those Phoenix guys. I tried to stop it as best I could."

"I know you did," said Akane. "I just think going back to China doesn't change any of that. I don't see what good would come of it. More than that, I'm worried about you, Ranma. I've been worried since we got back and I found you training with Kohl-kun in the mornings—so early, before even I would wake up. You're not sleeping, are you?"

A few winks here and there, moments of rest. That's all someone fit like him needed.

"See, saying nothing tells me it's true. Well, even before we talked today, I've been worried—not as your fiancée but just as a friend. If we _are_ really involved now, I'd like to be able to help you, not just now but whenever you need advice. I know not every girlfriend tries to be that way, but I can't stand by and watch and wait for you to say something when I know you're troubled—at least, not forever. If there's something you have to do in China, it can be about water or doing the right thing. I'll believe you if that's what you say. Just don't tell me it's to pay them back for something they did, to punish them…" She looked away, and her last words were but a whisper. "Especially for my sake."

For her sake?

So she recognized it, too, didn't she? When he found her in Phoenix Mountain, bruised and battered and bloodied on the back of her head, she knew what drove his determination, his rage. It was like he sat there naked in front of her, totally exposed.

…considering they'd both seen each other naked at one point or another, even that could be an understatement.

With a profound gulp, he stammered, "It's not, really. I promise."

Akane nodded, visibly relieved. "That's all I needed to hear. Well, let's see then. Ah, did you like your soup?"

#

As a point of fact, he did, but the way she was looking at him, he couldn't have said no even if it were true.

The trip back home was uneventful, save for the nagging feeling at the back of Ranma's mind that told him to be wary, watchful, and vigilant. Something malicious and angry followed them, and as much as he tried to dismiss it, he kept Akane close to him in the traincar and studied the faces of their fellow passengers. The riders ignored his gaze, though, and Ranma gave up looking. There were more pressing matters on his mind. These few hours alone with Akane had opened his eyes. Free from the scrutiny of their parents or the pressure of rivals, they'd found pleasure in each other's company, and that was all he could've asked for.

_I've been going about this all wrong,_ thought Ranma. _I've been trying to meditate and learn more about magic to quiet my mind. Maybe all I needed was a good day like this, a distraction, to change things and feel…"_

What did he feel?

Relaxed and at ease, which around Akane was a good feeling indeed. That security stayed with him as they cut from the station toward home, foregoing their studies for the day. Once Ranma closed the gate, however, he found a bit of a surprise. Akane left the path to the front door, a finger to her lips for quiet.

"What's this about?" Ranma whispered, following her.

"It's hard enough to find any privacy once we go inside," she said, eying the door and the windows. "I just wanted to thank you for this morning and afternoon, Ranma. I can't even tell you how happy I am, how excited! And relieved, too. I kept worrying that something would happen, I'd lose it, and we'd have a fight. I'm just so glad we didn't. Maybe you noticed it—how self-conscious I was."

_I didn't notice a thing—at least, not that you were trying so hard. It all just seemed natural._ "I wasn't worried about it," said Ranma. "You've always been pretty cute when you don't get worked up about things."

At that, Akane grew misty-eyed and looked like she wanted to jump out of her skin. As it was, she took a measured step closer, and Ranma's heart skipped a beat. There was a flicker in her eyes—the flicker of temptation, of fantasy. Or was it there? Just as Akane could drive him to seek vengeance from implacable enemies, so too could she spawn within him fanciful dreams. Ranma glanced to the windows. Were their families watching? Did they even know the two of them had returned?

Would Akane care if they did?

"Akane," he said, "should I…?"

Her eyes focused. She snapped from a daze. "Hm, what? What should you do?"

He glanced downward, just a few centimeters away from her eyes, and back again helplessly.

"Oh! That—you too?" Her cheeks flushed; she glanced away. "Um, what do you think about it?"

His eyes bulged. "I don't—I mean—that is…" He let out a breath, scratching his head.

"Maybe next time then? It would be a bit soon, I guess."

Ranma nodded furiously. "Give me a cup of sake, so I don't shake, and I'm there! I think."

Akane giggled. "I'll sneak something from Father's stash, just for you. Anyway, like I said, I had a lot of fun today. So, thanks."

"I'd do it again, anytime," he said. "Hell, next time I might even have money."

"So there's going to be a next time?"

He scoffed. "Yeah, count on it."

Blushing, Akane glanced at the door. "Well, we'd better head inside before we get found out here."

Ranma winced. "Would you, uh, go on ahead? There's something I want to check."

"You're not going back to the dojo, are you? I don't think that's healthy."

"I'm not; I promise. Just a nagging feeling I've had all day really."

She nodded. "Okay. See you in a bit, yeah?"

"Of course."

Akane skipped up the steps, and Ranma turned his attention to that unsettling sensation he'd been fighting. That hostility—that malice—it was close, and while he wouldn't let that spoil a private moment with Akane, he thought it best to seek it out, if it existed, and expose it for what it was. He leapt atop the wall surrounding the house, and right away, he spotted the interloper. It was a someone he knew well—no stranger to his eyes, that was for sure—but it pained him to see his suspicions confirmed.

Thirty meters down the road, a girl with long hair rode away on a bicycle, a box for delivery orders loosely attached to the back end.

Shampoo was watching, but if that was all, Ranma didn't care. Akane had taught him something that day—to be a little bolder, to open up and confront what troubled him. More than anyone, she understood him. She knew his weaknesses and loved him in spite of them. Their date had been nearly perfect, and Ranma knew the next time, he'd go further. China and his cure could wait. Taking vengeance on the Sorcerers who'd wronged them would do nothing to make them happy at home.

And the dead he'd failed or slain out of anger wouldn't come back for moping or remembering their faces. The number of the dead would stay with him—four and forty, an unspeakably unlucky number, for it was death once and death ten times more, yet though it stuck with him, he hadn't understood its significance to him, even as it kept him up many a night.

But Akane did. She'd recognized what horrified him most—the thought that, of all the times he'd killed, too many were motivated not by necessity or cool pragmatism. When Akane was in danger, all reason and restraint left his mind, and that's what haunted him. As much as he appreciated the day they'd spent together, what moved him most was that irreplaceable nugget of understanding, and he was thankful for it. Akane had given him that, too.

Truly, there was nothing he could do for the dead but remember them—their faces, their shouts, the way each of them fought. And he would count them, four and forty, but for the moment, his time fighting Sorcerers in China was past. He chose to keep a new number in mind—a number that gave him hope, solace, and peace.

_Two,_ he thought. _Second date._

The morning had been enlightening—and exhausting. So emboldened, he found his bedroom, unrolled the futon, and turned out the light.

For the first time in many days, he found sleep without counting the ticks of the clock.

* * *

I hope you have enjoyed the return of _Identity_ this week and will continue to do so as we continue this brief respite from the ongoing conflict with the Sorcerers in the next installment. However, though the rest of chapter eight is already written, it is not all revised fully, and I feel that the previous weekly update schedule I'd maintained is inappropriate with the length of the chapters as well as other factors. For these reasons, _Identity_ will update a bit less frequently than it has before, but it is my hope that the kind of breaks taken for chapters six and seven will no longer be needed. However, as always there are no guarantees. The only thing I can promise is that I'm working every day to further this story, and I am always appreciative of your readership. To those of you who've been so patient through the last ten months, I thank you, and to any new readers, I hope the next installment meets you well.

_**Identity**_** will return in three weeks, April 20, 2012, for "No Place of Sanctuary" Part II - "Enemies."**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	51. Sanctuary II: Enemies

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here? **While Ranma and Akane enjoyed a private date, they left someone behind—someone just as invested in Ranma's heart.

* * *

**Enemies**

_Chapter Eight, Act Two_

Throughout history, mankind has committed many a blunder. During the Trojan War, the army of Troy tried to salvage a great wooden horse from their Greek foes, oblivious to the small force of men inside. In World War II, the Japanese Imperial Army thought to launch a full-scale invasion of China, a landmass hundreds of times larger than the home islands, where angry peasants could bust open dams and let water—not men or bullets—slow down the Japanese advance. The innumerable examples of man's overestimation and folly would comprise a history of the human condition, yet in the eyes of one Kuonji Ukyō, one example stood paramount above all the rest:

The invention of trigonometry.

Sure, it was a practical necessity, a much-needed discipline in the fields of science and industry. One couldn't go to the Moon without sines and cosines and star fixes, but Ukyō was no astronaut. What would she use half-angle relations for in her culinary pursuits? To make a perfect isosceles triangle out of batter? No, it was much better to think trigonometry was a mistake, an unfortunate error. First-year students in high school shouldn't need to know the whole unit circle in fifteen-degree increments or the Taylor series expansion of the tangent function.

But the biggest mistake of all was trying to relearn this discipline, this entire field of mathematics, entirely on her own.

She hadn't _intended_ to do any such thing, but as the hours passed, it became more and more apparent that she was all alone, that no one would come to help her. With a collection of mathematics texts strewn over a table, Ukyō labored over notebooks in seclusion. Bookshelves hid her from view, and indeed, the solitude of that place was supposed to benefit them. Yes, _them_—the three who needed to finish their first-year studies and earn their places in next term's class: Ukyō, Ranma, and Akane.

Yet two out of three never showed.

There were a number of reasonable explanations for this development. A long-lost relative of the Tendō family could've shown up unexpectedly, claiming to be the true heir to the dojo and challenging Akane or Ranma for it in a match of Martial Arts Tiddlywinks. One could shudder at the grave stakes as winks shot violently through the air, tearing through tree trunks and walls. Perhaps a wink would end up in orbit, along with Ranma if he were to lose.

Well, that was an exaggeration, but sadly not much of one. And a much more likely alternative was that Ranma and Akane had found something else to do—or somewhere else to study—without her.

It'd been awkward enough during their study sessions earlier in the week. Ranma had sad on the other side of the table with Akane, refusing a neutral position between them or at the table's head. It was a subtle, silent declaration, but it spoke volumes.

Ukyō dropped her pencil on the table, and it rolled to a stop by the cover of an open book. She rubbed her eyes. She let out a breath and peered around one of the bookshelves, looking to the clock above the circulation desk.

Twelve-thirty, read the hands. Ranma and Akane certainly wouldn't drop in as late as that. They weren't coming. Ranma had made his choice. Indeed, he'd made it a long time ago, hadn't he? The day Ranma left for China, it was because Akane made him. He came to Ukyō's shop; he accosted her for barging in on the wedding, intent to break it up, and standing by when Shampoo brutally ambushed Akane the day after. For her actions, for her inaction, he threatened her.

"You can't do that again, Ucchan!" he'd said. "I won't let you. If you ever hurt her again, if you ever stand by while she's in danger, then you've made your choice. Do either, and you're not my friend anymore, certainly not my fiancée. Promise me you won't do that."

And promise she had. She'd watched over Akane as best she could. She'd kept her safe. She fought down any instinct, any urge to do harm to another person out of desire alone, yet what thanks did she get for it? An offer to study with them? To watch as they glanced awkwardly at one another and then back at their books? What a fabulous show of gratitude indeed.

That they weren't there meant they'd gone beyond just _glancing_, surely. The thought bored a hole in Ukyō's stomach, leaving a rumbling sound behind.

_That's just hunger,_ she insisted to herself, and unwilling to think of anything else, she closed her books, packing what was hers into a school bag. Obtuse triangles would have to solve themselves. With a resigned sigh, she headed for home.

Though she could leave one set of problems behind, she knew the others would stay with her, lingering with every step.

#

For the better part of a year, Ukyō had made her home in Nerima, a place she'd intended to visit for only a few days. After years of preparation, of nursing her anger and wounded pride, her contacts within the shadowy underground of the okonomiyaki community had located Saotome Ranma in Tōkyō, and it was there she'd gone to work her revenge. She amassed the capital to rent a shop of her own and the equipment to cook for a business—her retirement, so to speak, from many years of searching. She paid off her informants with favors that only her services could provide. She'd acted as the personal chef for visiting businessmen in high-rise hotels. She'd crafted flaming desserts for very, _very_ nice people and forgot any names or distinctive tattoos as soon as they entered her mind.

And her efforts would be rewarded when she took her revenge on Ranma and humiliated him to reclaim her honor, yet for all her years of nursing this desire, this quest to restore her family's good name, never did she imagine that Ranma would so greatly outclass her as a martial artist by the time she found him, or that she'd fall in love with him all over again—this time, not as a child but a budding woman—and choose to stay in this city so far from home.

As the months passed, Ukyō realized what'd really been in her heart. She'd hated Ranma for abandoning her—for pretending to be a good and honest friend, for accepting her family's greatest possession and running away with it—and as a result, she suppressed all signs of her femininity. She made herself look like a man, yet Ranma glimpsed the woman in her, even without her asking, and the girl who'd take him away from her, Akane, didn't seem to want him at all.

What a lie that was. Akane liked Ranma, too, as oblique as she was about showing it. Why she'd refused to actively pursue Ranma baffled Ukyō to no end. Was it stubbornness at being told whom to marry? Was it fear that Ranma would reject her? There were other girls, of course, who wanted Ranma's hand in marriage, but of all of them, Ukyō recognized Akane as the most significant threat. For whatever reason, Ranma would respond to Akane's overtures, infrequent as they could be. If she dedicated herself to pursuing him, Akane could put up a serious fight.

Considering that Akane had already confessed her love for Ranma and he hadn't rejected her, a "serious fight" could be understating the situation quite a bit.

But it was no matter. In wanting to understand her rival for Ranma's heart, Ukyō had come to know Akane. They spent time together, away from the object of their mutual affections. Privately, away from Ranma, Akane was a fine person—amiable, friendly, and polite. Though not so rigid as to refuse skipping school for a day, if Akane glimpsed a man stealing an old lady's purse, she wouldn't hesitate to knock him down and drag him to the victim to apologize. She was certainly passionate that way, and when it came to Ranma, she was stubborn. That much Ukyō knew well. One day, Ukyō had persuaded her to go to check out a nearby restaurant, and while Akane was pleasant company for light lunchtime conversation, when the topic wandered to Ranma and Akane's feeling's for him, Akane's response was quick and to the point.

"Whether I like Ranma or not isn't your concern," Akane had answered sternly. "Ranma will do as he likes. I'm not one to tell him one way or the other what he should do."

"But you could clarify things for him," Ukyō countered. "I know it might cause some tension in your family, but really, if you're not interested, there's no reason not to tell him so and let him move on."

"It's not like Ranma is waiting for me to say something. Besides, he likes you better, doesn't he? You're cute. Or Shampoo. I bet he likes her body. Or even Kodachi. She's kind of batty, but have you seen her legs?"

"Have you heard her _laugh_?" asked Ukyō.

"Well, that still leaves you and Shampoo. That's plenty to choose from."

"I don't understand why that means you won't tell him you're not interested."

"Because Ranma's the type of person who'd take that to mean I _am_ interested! He can't resist and opportunity to inflate his ego a little bigger. And I'm not going to tell him he should go after you instead, if that's what you're asking."

"Awfully nice way to talk about someone you're technically still engaged to."

Akane balked at that, but the glimmer of doubt and uncertainty flickered out as easily as it'd come. She looked away, sticking her nose up. "Like I said, that wasn't my choice. Whatever you want me to say to him, it's not going to happen. I'm perfectly fine with the way things are. I'm not interested in upsetting that for my own sake."

"With Ranma still officially your fiancé," Ukyō concluded.

"He's said it before, hasn't he? I'm the uncute fiancée. I don't think you have anything to worry about from me."

Such an insecure little girl. It was only a matter of time before her willingness to see bad things in Ranma and in herself came to bite them, wasn't it? Someday, Akane would conclude, wildly, that Ranma had become enamored with a pop idol or a passer-by on the street—or something similarly insane. That wasn't to say Ukyō was entirely innocent in that respect. Thinking their new teacher Hinako had taken Ranma's heart led to no small amount of hijinx and disaster, but at least Ukyō recognized that. Did Akane see how she'd behaved before? Or did confessing to Ranma just wipe those feelings away in a sickly, happy aura? If so, what was to stop them from coming back?

People don't change overnight, after all. Realistically, anything between Ranma and Akane would be precarious and stressful at best, but how long it would take Ranma to see that? They could be married by that point, trapped irrevocably in a marriage neither family would permit them to break.

Ukyō shook herself. These were silly, silly thoughts—her imagination and fears were leading her astray, far beyond what she actually knew to be true. It was lunchtime, and if she let these scenarios distract her, they'd ruin her chance to unwind from her studies and craft a delicious meal. A preoccupied chef is a bad one, after all, and Ukyō had plenty of other issues to worry over, for when she arrived at her restaurant, a pair of satisfied customers were already leaving. She peeked inside the doorway, finding every seat at the counter filled. The gathered customers beheld a culinary performance, but not one of Ukyō's making.

"Aha, there she is!" said the man behind the counter. "Ladies and gentlemen, the Mistress of the Griddle arrives! Please, show your appreciation for the owner of this fine establishment, my daughter Ukyō!"

There was a burst of applause through the room as Ukyō's father flipped an okonomiyaki in front of him with the lightest touch of his spatulas. Ukyō herself circled the counter, joining him, and muttered quietly, "Really, Father? 'Mistress of the Griddle'? Yesterday it was 'Madame of the Grand Spatula'!"

"Never underestimate the power of theatrics in this business," said her father. "It's half the difference between a chef who merely cooks and one who makes art."

"What's the other half?"

He chuckled to himself. "A room full of customers willing to watch you work."

Seeing the counter was indeed full to the brim, Ukyō went to the back to wash up and help with the lunchtime backlog. That was the state of things since the Nerima party had left for China—Ukyō's father and a select group of his staff had kept Ucchan's open while Ukyō herself had been gone. It helped pay the bills, after all.

And it helped her fulfill a promise to him—that they wouldn't go another ten years without seeing each other. It wasn't her idea, granted. He was a guest in her establishment, and he would leave if she asked, but her father seem convinced his restaurant in Ōsaka would get along fine without him for a little while, and by continuing to help out, Ukyō would be free to study and catch up with school.

That was the theory, anyway. What would happen after she'd finished her make-up studies, however, was a point of more friction. When the lunchtime rush subsided, Ukyō started counting the ingredients for her own meal, but her father plopped a finished okonomiyaki in front of her, ready to eat.

"Well, my daughter?" he began. "Good progress today on your studies? Or with the Saotome boy?"

Ukyō broke off a chunk of the okonomiyaki with her small spatulas. Eating someone else's dish did give her a chance to relax, to keep from questioning with every bite if she'd put on too much mayonnaise or not enough cheese. Feasting on her father's okonomiyaki evoked a nostalgic combination of flavors, as if they were traveling once more, making okonomiyaki wherever they went with that rickety old cart.

And that's why it pained her to answer her father's question truthfully. "It didn't go so well," she said. "Ranma and Akane-chan didn't show."

"No?" Her father scowled. "I wish I were surprised."

"Father!"

"It's been this way from the beginning. I remember how Saotome refused me at first, saying he couldn't promise his boy to you. That engagement has always been their priority. You could spend another ten years chasing after this boy and get nowhere."

Ukyō looked away. "Tell me something I haven't heard a dozen times since I got back."

"New advice? Something different? All right, the truth in the eyes of the gods: you need to think about what's important to you. This business is good—for the space you have. You could expand it. Talk to the landlord; convert the upstairs into a second floor and live somewhere else. I can find a place for you in Ōsaka and enroll you in a school there. We can run my restaurant together."

They could move to Ōsaka, and in doing so, she'd give up on Ranma. She'd let him be with Akane or whomever else he chose. She'd focus on expanding her family's business and making good money—worthy pursuits both of them, but they'd require a cost, a sacrifice up on Ranma. She'd let him be with Akane or whomever else he chose.

She'd have to forget the dishonor that'd been done to her.

"What's between Ranma and me isn't over," she answered her father. "It won't be over until we've been paid back for what was taken from us, and you know there's only one payment we should accept for that."

"So that's what this is about? A debt of honor, nothing more?"

Ukyō shook her head. "No, Father," she said, cutting off another piece of her meal. "This is the man I love."

"You've only known him this time around for how long now? Months? How can you possibly—"

"Let's not speak too loudly, Father," she said. "It could disturb the customers."

He huffed, eyeing a pair of new guests that took seats on the far side of the counter. Putting on a jovial, professional air, he greeted them like nothing else in the world mattered. "Yes, welcome to Ucchan's Okonomiyaki! How may I serve you today?"

Continuing her lunch, Ukyō considered her father's suggestion privately, for though she thought it ridiculous, she owed him the courtesy of at least mulling it over. From the corner of her eye, she watched her father take the new customers' orders, the sight warming her heart. Maybe it was the fresh okonomiyaki, but Ukyō didn't think so. While her father's opinion of Ranma was a point of friction between them, Ukyō wasn't about to turn her old man away. In the decade since she'd seen him, her father had become a seasoned, shrewd businessman, and in his care, Okonomiyaki Ucchan's had turned out record profits. As for the culinary side of things, her father had challenged her to add new dishes to her repertoire, to experiment in eclectic mixes of herbs and spices so her skills wouldn't grow stale. It was an educational, invigorating experience, a pleasure she could taste in the okonomiyaki her father had served her.

But though the last week or so had proved an invaluable opportunity to reconnect with this man and learn new things, there was still a fundamentla disconnect between father and daughter. Why else would he suggest she didn't know Ranma well enough, that she'd only been in town for some months and _couldn't_ know him?

Really, what an absurd idea. People could fall in love for a lot less. Handsome and skilled in his art, Ranma would make a fine husband, for he and Ukyō shared a drive to excel in their chosen pursuits. He certainly hadn't been a distraction, and it wasn't like Ukyō's honor had been stolen by a hideous sloth. That Ranma had fallen victim to a curse, developed an intense fear of cats, and lost contact with his mother were just little details. They didn't affect Ukyō's judgment of him or her feelings. They'd been friends long before the name _Tendō_ ever crossed his mind, and when it came to girls, he was timid as could be.

If nothing else, that told Ukyō the idea of Ranma and Akane blowing her off for time to themselves was absurd. She chipped away at her lunch with a clear head, watching her father work. Surely Ranma would explain what'd happened soon enough. He'd walk through Ucchan's door and apologize, maybe even kiss her to make up for it.

Thus it was with bated breath that Ukyō watched as a silhouette of a appeared at her door. She slid the last piece of her lunch aside and dusted off her clothes to catch the slightest crumb or speck of lint. The door opened, and she rose excitedly to meet the new guest.

"Delivery!" With a box of steaming Chinese food, Mousse peered inside, squinting without his glasses. "Hey, Ukyō, I've got your order."

Ukyō slapped her forehead. Mousse could put up a good fight against Ranma, but the way he bumbled about without glasses didn't reflect well on his intellect, and this matter wasn't helping either. "Mousse, what makes you _think_ I would order Chinese food from my own restaurant?"

"Hey, I just go where I'm told," he said, setting the box on the counter. "Don't I get a tip?"

"Mousse."

"What?"

"Look more closely."

Frowning, Mousse rubbed the lenses of his glasses and put them on. "Ukyō, you look different! You grew a beard!"

Ukyō's father raised a spatula in anger. "And just who are you to confuse me with my daughter?"

"Ah, no shooting the delivery man! Pleased to meet you; sorry for the misunderstanding—"

"Because not only are your eyes bad, but you can't hear where I'm talking to you from?" asked Ukyō. "And you're not getting any money from me for food I didn't order."

"Of course not. It came out of your credit."

Credit? What credit? Did this man specialize in making less and less the more he spoke?

"Shampoo told me to return this to you as well." Mousse placed a white envelope atop the box. "Something she borrowed from you, I take it?"

Ukyō frowned. "Nothing I remember."

"Well, don't you complain to my Shampoo about me; I'm just the messenger, you understand?"

Curious, Ukyō circled the counter and opened the bag. The meal was fairly ordinary—sesame chicken and egg noodles—and as far as Ukyō could tell, there was nothing sinister or dangerous about it. Konatsu would enjoy a change of pace in meals anyway. She felt the envelope, and it was thick and weighty—heavier than it would've been if it held a simple letter. She broke the seal and let the contents, a stack of Polaroids, spill on the counter. Each had been labeled with the time and place. The first was taken at a minute to nine in the lobby of the nearby train station, and in it, Ranma and Akane studied a city map. In the second, taken at a quarter to one, the happy pair received two steaming bowls of soup at a Vietnamese café in Itabashi, and though the glare of the window rendered their images faded, the pleasure in their expressions as they regarded each other was perfectly clear.

The third, fourth, and fifth Polaroids Ukyō stuffed back into the envelope without even a look. Mousse had already gone, so she'd get no answers from him, and in all likelihood, he didn't know a thing anyway. He said so himself, didn't he? It was Shampoo who sent her that envelope. Perhaps she'd organized the whole delivery just to send a simpler message—one they both had a vested interest in.

As for Shampoo's purpose in giving her these Polaroids, that was less clear until Ukyō finished putting the photos back in their envelope. On the inside of the flap, there was a rough, chicken-scratch message: "If interest, return to Cat Café."

Before her father could argue, Ukyō was out the door, leaving the last bite of her lunch behind.

#

That Shampoo would follow Ranma hardly surprised Ukyō. Most of the time, the girl acted like a naïve foreign bimbo, flaunting her body for him at every opportunity, but when Shampoo got serious, she'd do anything to win him. Ukyō had seen it weeks ago, when Shampoo confronted Akane at school, but she should've seen it before that. That driven determination was in Shampoo's eyes when they'd met outside the Tendō home for the wedding. With one look, they both realized the other's intentions—to disrupt the ceremony with bombs disguised as food—but in Shampoo, Ukyō glimpsed something else. The Amazon had worn a sly smile, as if she'd taken pleasure in what she'd done. In separating Ranma and Akane, she'd draw closer to her fantasy of being with Ranma herself, and any other consequences didn't matter.

Ukyō didn't recognize that sentiment at the time. If she had, she could've reconsidered. She could've held a mirror up to her face to see if she too wore such a wicked grin.

At the Cat Café, Ukyō found the tables largely deserted. Being closed while they tracked down Ranma in China likely did their business no favors. A restaurant with its lights out and ovens cold may as well disappear—that was something her father once said, and though Ukyō knew to expect a mid-afternoon lull, her father's maxim seemed all too true.

"My, do we have here a social call?" asked Cologne, watching Ukyō with her small pupils and big eyes. "I don't expect you're here to have us cook for you, hm?"

"No," said Ukyō. "I'm here to see your great-granddaughter. Is she here?"

Cologne nodded. "I'll fetch her presently. Certainly there's no one here to serve, so she has nothing better to do." The old woman ducked into the back of the shop, hobbling about on her walking stick. A deceptive one she was. Old and small, you wouldn't think she could trounce almost anyone in town (with the only possible exception being Ranma's insane, perverted master Happōsai), let alone go toe-to-toe with a handful of Sorcerers. Where Shampoo had gone to China for Ranma's sake, Cologne had different motives. It was personal to her. She was old enough to remember how that war damaged her people. Maybe that's why she could stomach the savage fighting, the bloodshed. Perhaps instead age had rendered her insensitive to the loss of life. The greater war wasn't personal to Ukyō, and she was still young and fit. What Cologne had led them to had been chaos incarnate, and the memory of those days brought a tinge of acid to the back of Ukyō's mouth.

Not a good thought to have after eating lunch.

"So," said a voice, "Ukyō come after all."

The great-granddaughter took after her matriarch, didn't she? Their ages made them appear differently, but just as Cologne's small frame was disarming, so too did Shampoo's womanly figure pacify and distract. Her attractiveness hid great strength, ferocity, and cunning. She was a dangerous person to call a foe, and for that, Ukyō rose to greet her host.

"Perhaps tea best for discussing this?" Shampoo offered, placing two cups and a kettle on the table. "Ukyō not sit?"

The okonomiyaki chef tossed the closed envelope onto the table, letting it slide to Shampoo's hands. "If after you explain the meaning of those photos I have reason to, I will. If not…"

Shampoo cocked her head, but a sly smile curled the corners of her lips. "Meaning is plain, is not? Ranma and Akane go on date. They go on date and leave you at library to struggle while laughing at you and foolish books, yes?"

"Shut up!"

Cologne peered from the kitchen, and Ukyō shrank under her gaze. Sitting down, Ukyō lowered her voice.

"How do you know about any of that?" she whispered to Shampoo.

"Shampoo follow Ranma in mornings and make up for lost time at Nekohanten in afternoons. Pictures speak few thousand words."

So it was. Ranma had abandoned her with no warning. He went with Akane and wasn't sorry for it. They'd enjoyed their day together, and Shampoo had documented proof of it. Had Akane convinced him to leave Ukyō behind, ignorant and unaware? The thought rankled within her; she closed her hand into a fist.

"If leave Ranma and Akane to themselves, they get closer. Shampoo saw it at Jusenkyō, after Saffron. Same is true now. Akane no good for Ranma. She no can fight like Ranma. She not fit to be his wife. You agree?"

"What I think about Akane-chan is my business," said Ukyō. "What are you suggesting?"

"In past, each of us do what we can to win Ranma, but if Ranma only have eyes for Akane now, that no work anymore. Shampoo and Ukyō no can afford to work separately."

Ukyō sipped her tea, studying Shampoo's expression. She looked earnest and confident, which went well with her apparently logical thinking. "You're suggesting we work together?" asked Ukyō.

"Exactly right."

"For what purpose?"

"To break up Ranma and Akane. After that, we fight over him ourselves. Is fair, no?"

"And just how would you propose we break them up?"

"Why should 'how' matter?"

"It matters because I'm asking the question and you're making the offer to me. What you did when you cornered Akane-chan at school didn't sit well with Ranma at all. I made a promise; I won't be part of any more violence."

Shampoo pursed her lips. "No violence necessary. Is not difficult to make Akane jealous. Matter of time before she accuse Ranma of perverse act that never happen, of talking to other girl in wrong way. Breakup is inevitable."

It all sounded reasonable enough. It was a rational, convincing plan, and for that, Ukyō found it unexpected. Shampoo hadn't taken the whole wedding plan nearly so well before. When she thought Ranma and Akane would get together, that Akane wouldn't be intimidated from pursuing him, she took it badly. _Very_ badly. For that, Ukyō slept in Akane's room when they visited the Amazon village, standing guard in case Shampoo tried to reach Akane or hurt her again.

And then, as now, Shampoo wore a necklace of red jade tightly around her neck.

"What's that?" asked Ukyō, pointing out the chain. "You got it at home, right?"

Shampoo pulled upward on her Chinese shirt, trying to cover the gems with her collar. "Is not Ukyō's concern."

"It is. I need to know who I'm dealing with, how far you're willing to go. I've seen what going off the handle will do. You might think you can manipulate Ranma and he'll just take it and take it, but he won't. You've seen that, haven't you? He practically broke your arm when you tried to attack Akane-chan. I stood by and watched, and he told me off for it. I can't imagine what he must've told you, yet you're still after him, wearing that necklace. What does it mean?"

The Amazon across the table glared daggers at Ukyō, trembling. "Shampoo make offer," she grunted through clenched teeth. "If Ukyō not willing to do what she must break Ranma and Akane up, then Ukyō watch as Ranma go with Akane and lose her honor, too."

Honor? What did this bratty girl before her know about honor? She'd been chasing Ranma for what, a little over a year? Ukyō had spent ten long years waiting, preparing for the day when she found Ranma again. Behind Shampoo's anger lay desperation, and a desperate girl who'd stop at nothing to win a man's heart was no one Ukyō would lower herself to work with.

"Thanks for the tea," she said, leaving a thousand-yen note on the table. "That should cover the delivery, too. I don't take charity, and I don't want any unannounced takeout in the future, either."

Shampoo scoffed. "Ukyō so confident now. When you see firsthand how Ranma and Akane touch each other and laugh together behind your back, your mind will change. Call Nekohanten if you reconsider. Shampoo know you will."

Only the door to the Cat Café could save Ukyō from the Amazon's intense stare.

#

Make no mistake, Shampoo hadn't always been so cold and determined—at least, not overtly. Surely not more than a month or two ago, she'd have happily thrown her arms around him, giggling for joy. The girl who sat across from Ukyō that day seemed far from happiness or enthusiasm. Surely it had something to do with her elders, something they decreed. No one could tell Ukyō what that was about; the villagers had discussed their business only in Chinese. One moment, Shampoo was punished somehow, doomed to wear that red necklace, and the next, she was leading a party to Jusenkyō in search of Ranma. What'd transpired between was a mystery to Ukyō, but the effect on Shampoo was clear enough. She'd begun to doubt Ranma would take her, and that fueled her desperation, her need.

Ukyō, on the other hand, felt no such pressing urgency, but Ranma had wronged her once again. That was enough justification to put off returning to her restaurant. She had a fiancé to confront.

After a brisk walk, Ukyō arrived at the threshold to the Tendō home, and it was the eldest sister, Kasumi, who answered the door.

"Oh, it's Ukyō-chan!" she exclaimed. "What brings you here? Perhaps you'd like to come inside?"

"Ah, no, thank you, I don't think I can stay long." _If I did, I'd surely run into Akane-chan, and that might not be too smart._ "Is Ranma home?"

"He might still be sleeping. It seems he's been very tired lately, so I'd be hesitant to wake him. Can I pass along a message?"

_Funny, I didn't remember him being tired; _I've_ been tired, but he's hardly given up a yawn, right? _ "If he's asleep, I'll come back another time, but could you check for me? I'll just wait outside."

Kasumi smiled. "Of course." She slid the door shut, and Ukyō walked down the front steps, pacing in the spring breeze. All she had to do was keep a solid grounding in the facts. She was in the right. Ranma had abandoned her—going on this date, leaving with her cart. As long as she confronted him on those points, he'd wilt. He'd have to give in to her. They were childhood friends, after all. Offer him a chance for forgiveness, and he'd jump at the chance. Ranma liked the tough-guy exterior he put out, but given the prospect of someone refusing him, he'd come around. Ukyō had seen it before.

"Hey, Ucchan." Ranma descended the steps, rubbing his eyes. So it was—he _had_ been sleeping—but as he approached her, his gaze was sharp and keen. "Didn't expect to see you here," he said. "What's up?"

" 'What's up'? " she echoed. "Oh, not much." She tossed the envelope of Polaroids at his feet. "A small _tangent_ from your studies, I take it?"

"What the…?" Ranma snatched up the photos, glancing nervously over his shoulders. "You want everyone to see? How did you get these, anyway? Were you following us, too?"

"No, but you need to explain this to me, Ranchan. How could you take Akane-chan on a date while I was waiting for both of you? I waited and waited, but you never showed."

"It's not—that's not what happened, really! We just sort of decided; that's all. You were knocking problems out of the park all on your own. I didn't think you'd have any trouble without us. I just, uh…" He frowned, at a loss for words, and that, Ukyō knew, was the time to strike.

"It's all right," she said. "You can make it up to me."

"Huh? How?"

She rolled her eyes. "You could take me on a date, too, silly."

There was a silence—a sudden, unexpected silence. Ukyō had glanced aside to act coy, thinking Ranma would panic and try to get her attention, to get an assurance of sincerity from her gaze. Instead, Ranma's brow furrowed, and what came from his lips then was steady, measured, and determined.

"I'm sorry, Ucchan," he said. "I don't think I can do that."

" 'You don't think—' " Ukyō gaped. "Well, why not? Fair is fair, right?"

"This isn't about fairness. I didn't plan for things to turn out this way; I didn't even know you were a girl, remember?"

Ukyō gritted her teeth. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"No, it—" He sighed. "Damn this is difficult. What do you want me to say?"

"That you're smarter than you've let on. Akane-chan's admission, confession—whatever you call it, it doesn't change anything. You can't forget what you owe me, Ranchan. You can't pretend your family never wronged mine. I'm just asking for what I'm due. I admit, I was angry with you before, but I'm not now. You're a good guy. You've been through Hell and kept your head about you. I can't even imagine what that's like, but I _can_ help you forget." She winked. "One bite of my okonomiyaki at a time, right? I'm your cute fianceé, and I can do whatever you ask me to do. I'd stay home with you and cook all day if that's what you wanted. Akane-chan couldn't possibly do that for you, could she?"

"I like your cooking fine, Ucchan, but that doesn't have anything to do with anything."

Scowling, Ukyō went on. "Well, fine then! What do I have to do? I kept Akane-chan safe, didn't I? I mean, she did get away from us, but as well as I could, I did what you asked. Isn't that enough?"

Ranma scratched at the back of his head, his lips pursed, his gaze pensive. "Look, I know what you want from me. Right now, I can't give that to you. Why can't we just be friends?"

Ukyō stared at him blankly. Where had this sternness, this backbone come from? She shook it off. What he'd said thus far didn't matter. She'd come in with a plan, and she'd stick to it. She looked him in the eye. "If you can't give me what I'm owed, then you're an insensitive jerk, you know that? I gave up ten years reeling from that sad day when you abandoned me, and I'll disappear for another ten if that's all you can say. I'll run off with Konatsu and go back with my father to live in Ōsaka. You won't have another girl fawning over you if that's what you want."

"You and Konatsu? So that's really your sort of thing, with the cross-dressing and the—"

"Don't be a nitwit!" cried Ukyō. "I made that up! Listen to what I'm saying to you for a minute. You're supposed to marry _me_. Not Akane-chan, not Shampoo or Kodachi or anyone else. Akane-chan said she's in love with you? Well, I've been in love with you longer. You have to think about this the right way, Ranchan. You may think you like her, but you know how she can be when she's angry."

"And I know how she can be when she isn't." He glanced back to the house, smiling to himself. "I saw that today. It can be a little rare, so you have to enjoy it while you can. She's a good person, Ucchan. So are you. All I know right now is Akane almost died in my arms, and I'd be a fool not to do what I wanted instead of fighting it and pushing it aside like a coward. Like I said, it's not fair. I don't know how to make it fair. What Pop took away from your father I can't give back yet. Right now, I'm going to get to know Akane. I don't know what else to tell you. Maybe, if that doesn't work out…"

If it didn't work out between him and Akane, only then would he consider her.

And Ukyō stormed through the main gate before he could finish that sentence.

Before he could finish the insult.

#

With two fists clenched at her side, Ukyō made briskly for home. The wind had died down, making for a pleasant afternoon, yet she shook and trembled with each step. She shuddered to breathe, and she dared not look anywhere other than straight ahead. She feared her reflection in storefront windows, lest it show plainly what she so desperately hoped to hide:

Rejection.

Loss.

Confusion.

Panic.

No single emotion captured what she felt, but it was as if some sinister witch had tossed all four into the boiling cauldron of her heart.

A witch with Akane's face.

On entering her restaurant, she ignored her father's questions, his demands to know where she'd been and why she neglected her work. She dashed upstairs, finding solace in her apartment. There, she began to think clearly—to reconsider and recover.

_Ranchan said I'm next. He loves Akane-chan, but I would be next._

But what were the chances? What were the odds? He forgave Akane for her sins. He saw the good in her. After that conversation, how could Ukyō sway him? Everything she tried was for naught, and if he neglected her, if he went with Akane forever, what would she have left?

A father who'd say he was right to forgive lost honor, even when she wouldn't.

A restaurant franchise to expand, perhaps all over the country, but no one to start a legacy of her own with.

Her father wouldn't help her. Meek Konatsu wouldn't know how. She'd need an ally to change Ranma's mind, and there was one person to call on. She went to the phone on the wall and turned the rotary to dial.

"Hello?" said a voice. "Cat Café."

The strength drained from Ukyō's arm, pulling the handset away. She stared at the speaker, saying nothing, while the garbled voice at the other end kept going.

"Hello?" asked Cologne. "Is anyone there?"

In calling back, in reaching out to Shampoo, Ukyō proved only one thing: she was just as desperate, just as wanting, just as willing to do anything for Ranma, whatever the cost.

Was that really her? Was that really what she'd become after ten years of suppressed yearning?

Facing tough questions with no answers, Ukyō's grip gave way. In a daze, she drifted to her bedroom, leaving the phone in the hall to dangle on its cord.

* * *

**Next:** Even in Japan, the captain and advisor Kohl is Lady Sindoor's eyes and ears. Rebels have crossed an ocean to find Ranma, and it's Kohl's duty to discover their motives, to sabotage their plans. **Coming May 11, 2012: "No Place of Sanctuary" Part III - "The Lady's Agent"**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, visit my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com, or follow the link in my profile.


	52. Sanctuary III: The Lady's Agent

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid**. A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here?** When Kohl freed Ranma from the Sorcerers' clutches, it was on Sindoor's orders. Though the Lady wanted Amazons on her doorstep no longer, she and her kind haven't yet given up on making Ranma their Sieve.

* * *

**The Lady's Agent**

_Chapter Eight, Act Three_

Since the great war against the Riverfolk, the Sorcerers' knowledge in the arts of sword and mace had waned. Many masters of these disciplines fell in battle, leaving orphaned children to play with sticks and imagine themselves heroes as they acted out the defense of the village. The children who were most competitive in these games—and who showed the greatest aptitude for magic—helped rebuild the Sorcerer Guard, studying under the Lady's tutelage.

With these thoughts in mind, Kohl practiced striking with his staff under the midday sun. The interior of the dojo had yet to thaw, so the open space within the compound walls was his training ground. With acrobatic spins and jumps, he thrust the iron tip at air. He pounded the shaft into the ground with an overhead smash and went on undeterred. The wood was durable, flexible, but Kohl was cautious with it. As a girl, this particular staff was too long—with one end planted in the ground, the other tip extended roughly two fingers' widths above his head. It was an uncomfortable length, but Kohl had no choice in the matter. Had he approached the outsiders with a chance at freedom as the captain, they never would've accepted it. Hopefully, someone in the village was caring for his old staff.

If they hadn't burned it as the possession of a traitor.

Perhaps it was foolish to rely on such a weapon, but the Lady had always insisted on it. "There may be times where magic will fail you," she'd cautioned him one day. "In that event, you must rely on the strength of the wood in the staff, on the metal weights that give its ends brute force. If you are caught unaware in your true and proper body, strength alone will have to save you, and even in your captain's body, there may come a time when the price of using magic—the danger inherent to wielding it—is too great."

The price was too great when magic could drain the life from a swath of forest, turning it to ash. Long had the Lady known the dangers of their arts, longer than she would admit such dangers even existed.

And it was that woman Kohl served, even in exile.

He made the staff still, listening to the chirps of feathered birds or the thundering roars of behemoth metal ones that soared overhead. This vast, bewildering city could never get as quiet as the village he knew. At night, the city glowed—its incessant light drowned out the faint pinpricks in the sky. Thus, it was with some trepidation that Kohl concealed himself behind the dojo, uncertain he would be left alone. He jostled a tree, and a small, leathery pouch dangled from a low-hanging branch. A fine, white powder he poured onto the back of his hand. This much was inconspicuous. It could be hidden when fire would draw too much attention. He closed one nostril, put the pinch of powder to the other, and snorted.

He shut his eyes and staggered. His skin tingled, for the flows and eddies of ki enveloped him, and he felt them keenly. So many souls in this land—too many for his feeble mind to distinguish and understand, but that bothered him not. He focused his thoughts elsewhere, on a ripple, a harmonic, that underlaid all others.

'_Do you feel me, Captain?'_

The Lady's power knew no limits—that much Kohl had learned quickly since leaving the village. They'd planned to make contact each day at noon, but the first time, Kohl was early. In Japan, it seemed, the sun would reach its highest point sooner than in the village, but such a small detail made no difference to the Lady. She could feel his mind reaching out for her when when she was unprepared. If the Lady secluded herself in the tower and mediated, could she touch Kohl's mind unaided?

'_Perhaps I could, but that isn't what we should discuss, Captain. There are traitors among our people, traitors we must root out.'_

Traitors, in the minds of the villagers, would include him. The captain and advisor was a public defector, but he'd acted alone. The rebels who sought to release Ranma (or to kill him, failing that) had infiltrated the Sorcerer Guard. Xiu had all but vanished, and his followers hid among the loyal.

'_The Guard—our village—is greatly weakened, Kohl. Traitors venture across the sea to reach the chosen Sieve. I will scour the Guard here to find any traitors who remain, but I fear most hide in the bodies they were born with. That is nothing you can remedy, but the ones who have ventured to Japan you must intercept. If you make contact with them before the Sieve does, you know what you must do.'_

_I understand._

'_Good. How are the Sieve and his beloved?'_

_They devote themselves to learning._

'_Together?'_

_Yes._

'_Very good. You remember your duty, don't you, Kohl?'_

_To stay with the Sieve while the village rebuilds, to break him when there is opportunity and make magic safe to wield again._

'_You do your duty well. Your efforts won't be forgotten, Captain. Remember that.'_

He would be remembered for doing his duty, for protecting the village. This duty he didn't question, so to be remembered for it gave him little solace. All he could ask for was to be welcomed home when the village was safe again, to find Tilaka free and at peace because the chosen Sieve had been broken and installed at the top of the tower.

Until then, Kohl would live as a traitor, marooned in a foreign land that baffled and amazed him.

#

As a child, Kohl had heard tales of the outer world—and Japan in particular—thanks to a visitor to their village, a wanderer who could breach the Maze. There were oceans: vast bodies of water where all land slipped below the horizon and disappeared. To number the many souls that lived on this earth, one would have to count to ten thousand, count that ten thousand times over, and count that sixty times more. Such a number Kohl found inconceivable, but it was accepted fact to outsiders. To them, the moon in the sky was no sign of fortune or danger. It was a concrete, firm place that man not only understood but had walked upon, traversing the void that connected the earth and stars.

One could only wonder if magic were capable of that.

Kohl pondered such abstractions on his own time, but that day, he had duties to perform, and the most he needed to understand the outsiders' world was a map to keep from getting lost. The Lady had charged him to find traitors wherever they might go to seek out Ranma, and this he would do, without question, without hesitation, so he left the Tendō home, walking into the unending city that he could barely comprehend.

Even if it meant braving the dangers of a hunched-over woman and her pail and ladle. While a splash of water would penetrate clothing and change his skin at the slightest touch, a panel of ice—rectangular to hide his body—protected him nicely.

"My!" cried the woman. "The others never did anything like that." Laughing to herself, she hobbled up the walk to her home, one step at a time. The spots on her skin, the gray in her hair, the misshapen bends of her fingers—they all told of great age, yet on that street she was no different from any other citizen. Perhaps children would treat her with deference and respect, but that was all. The old drew no special looks from other Japanese, yet Kohl marveled at them all the same.

That sense of disorientation, of bewilderment, worked against him in his assigned task. Truly, he walked about a strange and foreign land. To glimpse in the distance dozens of towers to rival the Lady's own, to hear the roars of mechanical beasts as they rolled down smoothed and blackened paths—certainly there were words to describe this vast world of technology, but Kohl didn't know them. Just as knowledge of magic had grown over the centuries, with each generation of Sorcerer contributing a small advance, a collection of insights, so too had outsiders built upon what they could understand. They'd worked metal and wood more and more efficiently with every year until their arts had achieved inconceivable feats.

And the outsiders' technology was something Kohl _needed_ to understand to accomplish his mission. The labeling of streets, the behavior of traffic signals—he had to understand them to get from place to place. That was, unless he wanted to make a spectacle by flying over buildings in a great show of magic's power. Such a demonstration would draw too much attention. The Sorcerer Guard's black cloth and battle staff turned enough heads as it was.

In truth, while making sense of modern technology was in Kohl's best interest, what truly fascinated him were the _people_.

In searching for traitors, Kohl had only a vague idea of how to start. He journeyed to the to local library, where Ranma and Akane went to study, but seeing no commotion there, he searched the nearby shopping district instead. These rebels were interested in how to live differently, how to change the village to suit their need—the need to use magic, to embrace it recklessly…

To live in bodies they weren't meant to live in.

It didn't bother outsiders. They didn't know any better. A man and a woman passed Kohl by with their infant child in a rolling contraption. _Their_ child. That was the way of the outsiders—they chose their mates. They weren't assigned partners in lottery. They didn't need the impetus of a regular ritual to continue their villages, their cities, their vast civilization. They chose to procreate. They _enjoyed_ it. They enjoyed it so much, they devoted technology and medicine to trim their numbers, to keep babies from being born, so the act of pleasure would have no consequences.

Just the idea made Kohl shudder, but that too was something Kohl had to understand. It was the key to breaking a would-be Sieve. Tilaka knew it. Saotome Ranma would know it—as soon as he confronted the tumultuous emotions in his heart. Really, for people meant to be "married" and who supposedly cared for one another, they were moving painfully slowly for Kohl's needs. Weren't these people liberated? Didn't they believe in sating physical pleasures whenever the urge came to them? That was Kohl's impression of the Japanese people, at least in comparison to his own, but Ranma and Akane were like timid squirrels, fleeing from the slightest movement of the other that might close the distance between them, that might make them like the couples he passed on the street.

But these were the meandering thoughts of a soldier with too broad a mission. For hours, Kohl wandered about town, seeking traitors out from the disturbances they'd cause. They wouldn't blend in. It was impossible for them, and surely they'd be lost in this grand city. They could come within a hundred paces of the Tendō home and never know it, for the writing that would tell them so was similar yet alien. This was no small village; the name _Saotome_ would mean nothing to most people Kohl ran across, and the rebels would face the same difficulty. How could they hope to find Ranma except by sensing, by trying to feel for his energies amid the swift and confused currents of ki?

Even that was no sure prospect. With so many people in the city, a Sorcerer could easily become lost and confused. The streets of Tōkyō were rife with emotion: with joy, irritation…

"You there!"

And boldness—the boldness of a little girl who held a hollow coin between her two fingers, watching Kohl through the hole in the center.

"You're a naughty girl, aren't you?" she said. "I sense fighting spirit inside, just waiting to come out!"

Kohl looked about. "And what if that's true?"

"I'm just warning you, Chinese lady," said the girl in the yellow top. "If you make trouble, I'll punish you."

_And just how are you supposed to punish me when you're half my size?_

"Eek! Thief!"

The cry came from behind Kohl. An old woman held dearly onto the straps of a leather bag as a masked man tried to yank the item from her grip.

"Criminal!" The little girl bolted past Kohl. "I'll punish you instead!"

Through the hole in the coin, the flows of ki concentrated and became visible. From the ambient aura of the criminal, she siphoned off vast energies, consuming them for her own use. She grew taller, into a womanly figure, and the masked man could only shrink and fall to the ground, utterly weakened and exhausted.

And it would've been quite the good deed…had she managed to keep the old woman she hoped to save out of the line of fire, too.

"Ah, ma'am?" She ran to the old woman's side, but both the man and the old woman lay prone, catatonic on the sidewalk. "Ma'am, are you…? Oh dear." The grown woman with the coin glanced about sheepishly. "I guess I overdid it."

Truly, _bewildering_ didn't begin to describe Tōkyō, and it would take more than Kohl or Ranma's ambient auras to draw attention from fellow Sorcerers, especially in the soup of a crowded shopping district.

That's why Kohl wandered. If he couldn't find these traitors with his eyes and ears, he would attract them with magic. He froze puddles on the ground from recent rains. He summoned gusts of wind to blow through the streets, and curiously, girls around him would pull furiously on their skirts to keep them down. They'd already exposed so much of their flesh; why did they panic to think that more might show?

No matter. A moving, active source of magic—the rebels would find that irresistible, wouldn't they?

But the sun fell in the sky, casting long shadows over the streets. If there were indeed traitors bent on finding Ranma, Kohl would never intercept them after dark. If he left them to wander the capital aimlessly, maybe they'd give up, but all it would take was a touch of fortune, a faint hint of Ranma's growing power to reach them.

And it wasn't the captain's way to leave such happenings to chance. From clear mid-afternoon skies, Kohl summoned an impossible storm. A single dark cloud formed overhead, and bolts of lightning rained down in a deafening, blinding shower. Frightened onlookers scurried for shelter, taking cover under umbrellas for rain that would never come or holding briefcases over their heads. A crowded street emptied in moments, until only Kohl was left. That was the difference between Sorcerer and outsider. The outsiders fled what they couldn't understand. They lacked a connection to nature, a sense of the world around them. No Sorcerer would fear those strikes from the heavens.

Indeed, the coalescence of magic attracted Kohl's prey—a girl with short black hair and a dark complexion. Her attire simple and drab: loose-fitting robes in various shades of brown.

And she wasn't alone. From high and low, more traitors came, surrounding Kohl. They wore the black uniforms of the Guard, but cloth masks hid their faces. It was a statement, just in their dress: it said they were of the Guard but no longer, that the ones suborning this movement came directly from the Lady's might.

The girl in the robes stopped ten paces from Kohl. A single bodyguard protected her. Three others watched Kohl—two from the roofs of nearby buildings, one down the street behind him. Kohl raised his staff defensively, lest they strike before saying a word.

"What troubles you, Captain?" said the girl. "You conjure a vast storm; you've drawn us to you. Do you think us enemies? I assure you we aren't."

_Maybe _you _think we aren't._ "What is your business here?" asked Kohl.

"The same business as yours—to see our people prosper and thrive. We're here for the same reason you led Saotome Ranma to freedom. Magic's potential will always be stymied and limited while a Sieve is in place. That's why you've conjured this storm, isn't it? To find allies worthy of the cause?"

"Perhaps," said Kohl. "But what then? I know of your movement, how Xiu tried to kill the Sieve in the name of freedom. Is that what you've come to do—to finish what he couldn't?"

"What if we have?"

CRACK! A bolt of lightning struck between them, scorching the pavement.

"Then we're at odds," said Kohl, leveling his staff at her. "The outsiders have given me sanctuary. I will not repay them in bad faith, regardless of cause!"

The girl in the robes raised a hand. "Calm yourself, Captain. Xiu was a fool; his desperation cast us all in a bad light. We don't seek the Sieve's death. Indeed, we want the outsider's help to transform the village, to make the truth about Sindoor known."

"What truth is that?"

"Bring the outsider here, and we can discuss it," said the girl.

Bring the Sieve and expose him to these traitors? Just because they said it was for talk didn't make it so, and the Lady wanted these misguided souls kept away from Ranma. One against four or five—it wouldn't bode well. It didn't bode well for Kohl.

More importantly, what could this girl want with Ranma's help?

"Give me a reason to trust what you say," Kohl demanded. "Give the outsider a reason to trust you."

The girl in the brown robes threw an object at Kohl's feet. "Show him that," she said, "and he'll know who I am, that what I have to say is worth listening to."

Kohl picked up a collection of fibrous strands, crimson in color, hand-crafted of intertwined strands.

It was a knot of red rope.

#

This offer of a symbol of trust hardly surprised Kohl. It was accepted fact that Ranma had allies in the village. Someone must've helped him escape to Mount Phoenix. Naturally it was someone in the traitors' movement. Kohl didn't care for playing a lowly messenger, but the traitors wanted Ranma—in theory, not to kill him but to find out something about the village, about the Lady? If so, Kohl could eliminate a bigger threat than a collection of misguided fools. Knowledge would persist beyond a single man's natural life. Knowledge that would hurt the Lady and the village was dangerous indeed.

Given the trouble he'd gone through to find these rebels, Kohl thought convincing Ranma to meet them would be simple. He found Ranma in the dojo once more, and surely, showing him the piece of red rope would convince him to meet the sender.

"No way in hell!"

Then again, nothing was too sure when it came to Ranma.

"There's nothing that snide little bitch can say to make me want to help her!" Ranma batted the piece of rope out of Kohl's hands. "Xiu was just a puppet of hers. As far as I'm concerned, they can all take the staves they brought, snap them in two, and stick the pointy ends up their shiny—"

"Ranma!" The youngest Tendō sister retrieved the knot of rope and chided her fiancé. "This is no time to be rash. Let's hear what Kohl-kun has to say."

"You don't know what she's like," said Ranma.

"I do; I met her. I admit she was a bit…short when it came to dealing with people."

"Try _impossible_. She's probably the most stuck-up and irritable of all of them." He frowned. "Well, except for you, Wuya."

Kohl narrowed his eyes. "This is a compliment?"

"Yeah," said Ranma. "Delivered straight from the back of my hand."

"Don't be mean to Kohl-kun," said Akane. "He's just delivering the message."

"I know she is."

Kohl rubbed his brow. Perhaps he should've considered that five-on-one scenario after all….

"That's not funny," said Akane. "Besides, someone's coming to you for help, Ranma. It's not like you to dismiss that out of hand—even when it comes to someone you don't particularly like."

"What's this about me not being helpful? We were just talking about this; you said you didn't want me getting involved!"

Akane looked away. "That was before…"

" 'Before'? What kind of impossible double standard is that?"

"It's not a double standard; these are two different situations!"

" 'Two different'—?" Ranma gritted his teeth. "Fine. Whatever. I'll go listen to the ungrateful weasel, though I doubt she has anything worthwhile to hear."

"All right, let's go then," said Akane.

"Us? No way; you're staying here."

"You think you and Kohl-kun are going alone? The two of you against a bunch of them?"

"Doesn't scare me! But you'd have to be crazy to want to tag along if there's a fight."

"And what do you mean by that?"

Back and forth they argued, and since Kohl had no part in the matter, he shuffled down the walkway to the house, twirling his staff once more. Back in the village, it was rare for anyone to raise their voice in making a point. The Sieve's calming effect often kept such strong emotions in check, and if it didn't, it was a sure sign that the argument had become too heated.

That was true of most villagers, anyway. In the Guard, things were different. The pressure and stress of combat—and, in recent days, the lack of a Sieve to aid them—fueled strong emotions. Kohl wouldn't deceive himself into think he was immune to flights of irrational fancy, to stubbornness and insistence in the face of all logical thought, in the face of facts. Nevertheless, to hear Ranma and Akane bicker so fervently dulled his mind. It was neither the time nor the place, and daylight was evaporating with each angry word they traded.

"Well, if that's how you feel about it, fine! I don't want to go with you!" Akane stormed from the dojo, her fists balled at her side. Shaking her head, she let out two heavy breaths, and as she met Kohl at the doorway to the main house, she appealed to him. "Tell me I'm not crazy," she said. "We went on a date, Ranma and I, and I thought we understood each other. I thought we could talk, that he wouldn't worry anymore, but now, his armor's back on. I don't know if there's anything that can make him come back out."

Kohl raised an eyebrow. "Do you really think it wise to go? There are several of them. The outsider and I can take care of ourselves. You, on the other hand—you may have will and fortitude, but you don't practice magic. To insist on going anyway…"

Akane's eyes widened a bit; she looked taken aback. "You're right about that. It's just Ranma has all these adventures, and for the most part, he faces them alone. I just want to be there for him and—"

"Wuya!" Ranma ran down the steps from the dojo. "Come on; you got friends to meet. Let's go already."

And go they did, leaving Akane behind to guess and hope to understand.

#

For his part, Ranma felt no need to comment on that, and led what seemed to be a circuitous route toward this rope-maker's meeting place, but he strode deliberately, with a sense of purpose and direction. Kohl had underestimated Ranma, and it wasn't the first time. Before, he dismissed the notion of an outsider besting him out of pride and stubbornness. Even when he could accept that, he still thought Ranma unreasonable, brash, and abrasive. As an enemy, Ranma wouldn't hesitate to mock the Guard and the village. That much hadn't changed—certainly, Ranma hadn't shown Kohl overt trust and kindness, not even as a student.

Nevertheless, Kohl had seen more sides to the man: timidity around Akane when both seemed confused by their feelings contrasted authority when the specter of danger returned. He was specific about Akane staying behind. He was specific in his path, as nonsensical as it seemed. At times, they'd walk away from where Kohl had met the traitors and make no obvious move to recover the difference. As it was, Kohl could only conclude Ranma had a fondness for purposefully irrational actions. Why give up extra support? Why wander so aimlessly when the destination was known?

"Where are we going?" asked Kohl. "Your rope-maker will be waiting for us in a specific place across the canal, yet you continually lead us away."

"I'm not so stupid to meet them in a place they know," answered Ranma. "If they want to find me, they'll do it where I control the location and all the angles they could come at us."

As Kohl suspected—a logical aim masked behind apparent irrationality. In battle, Saotome Ranma was a resourceful, inventive fighter, and perhaps that mindset governed his thoughts in peace, too. "And the girl?" asked Kohl. "What reason did you have to keep her away?"

"It's like I said; getting involved with this is dangerous."

"She's fought before. She's fought _me_ before. She's not an untrained bystander waiting to be killed."

"Sounds like the exact opposite of what you told her by the dojo. You think I didn't hear that?"

Kohl made a face. Ranma heard that from inside? Kohl shook it off, though, regaining composure. "I told her what would get us moving. You haven't answered me. Her determination makes her capable, better than just the two of us."

Ranma scoffed. "Says you. Akane doesn't know her own limits. She thinks she can single-handedly take down your whole Guard army. Anybody who's paying attention can keep her from touching them. Trust me—I do it all the time."

"So you fear for her safety."

"Hold up; that's not what I said."

"If you think her incapable of defending herself, what else could you mean?"

"You don't get to say that about her."

Kohl raised an eyebrow.

"Don't shoot me that look like you think you're innocent, either. If you're going to keep insulting Akane in front of me, we're going to have a problem. You understand?"

"I'm not insulting—"

Ranma spun Kohl around, squeezing Kohl's shoulder in a vice-like grip. "Do we have a problem?" asked Ranma through narrowed eyes. "Or don't we?"

"…no problem."

"Good."

They started walking again, and as he fell into step behind Ranma, Kohl made a face. Whatever was going on in Ranma's head, Kohl gave up trying to understand it, at least for that day. The truth might cost too much sanity to be worth knowing.

Ranma led Kohl to walled-in grounds. A school he called it, a place of education and learning for hundreds of children. On open fields, they would play games or exercise.

"Do your thing," said Ranma. "Lead them out here, into the open. If they want to chat, they'll do it on my terms."

Afternoon turned to night, and against the twilight, the lightning Kohl called forth from the sky was all the brighter. After some time, the rope-maker and her band of traitors climbed over the schoolyard wall. Kohl lit ball of fire in his hand, warding off the coming darkness.

"What is this, Captain?" asked the rope-maker. "This wasn't our agreement. You said you'd bring the outsider to us, not lead my people even further astray."

"You wished to see the outsider; these were his terms," said Kohl.

The rope-maker eyed Ranma. "So, Outsider. You hide behind this captain? You make her your loyal dog?"

_I am _not _a dog._

Ranma shrugged. "Yeah, I'd rather she bring back bones instead of other live undesirable people I never wanted to see again."

Kohl groaned.

"Put down your weapons," said Ranma. "Rope-maker, you were in the Guard. You have some sleeping poison or whatever on you; I know you do. Put your friends to sleep for a while. You want to talk to me? Do it yourself."

"I won't be left helpless to defend myself in this body!" cried the rope-maker.

"So maybe you want to show us your other body? The one you served in the Guard with? I'm sure Wuya would love to see that."

"I refuse! And if you insist on such harsh terms, then you invite Sindoor's army to reach across the ocean and touch you, Outsider! You invite the Guard to claim someone you hold dear!"

Empty threats and nonsense. This rope-maker was starting to irritate Kohl with all her grandiosity and self-importance. If she _had_ been in the Guard, Kohl could easily picture what she must've been like—convinced of her greatness, she would would prove her _infinite_ superiority through magical quakes that could shake a mountain down or by wielding a staff much too long for her body, as if to say only she could effectively fight with such a weapon.

Such were the downsides of everyone in the Guard knowing what it was like to be a man, one way or another. No one was immune to comparing their worth by the length of their staff. Without doubt, Ranma would shoot back with some bold insult or challenge of the rope-maker's ability, and Kohl endeavored to block it out, yet as the sun's last sliver fell beneath the horizon, the only sound Kohl and the rope-maker could hear was the burning of the fireball in Kohl's hand.

"What is it, Outsider?" asked the traitors' leader. "Why don't you speak?"

Ranma's eyes narrowed, and Kohl felt a chill. The waves and ripples of ki told of an oncoming disturbance, and rather than question it or try to halt it, Kohl knew better. He stepped aside, clearing the way.

And Ranma broke an icy hammer across the rope-maker's face. CRACK!

The rope-maker flew back, tumbling to the ground. Her escort drew their staves, but Kohl stepped before Ranma, just as ready to fight.

"Outsider, are you insane?" The rope-maker rolled onto her side. Blood drained from her nose, and she spat on the ground. "You attack unprovoked?"

" 'Unprovoked'?" said Ranma. "You call that _unprovoked_? You made Akane do your dirty work in China, and now you threaten her in our hometown?"

"I made no such threat! I only stated fact—that Sindoor could do whatever she wanted if her loyalists come in force to scour Japan. For that, you'd break my nose?"

Ranma scoffed. "It's not my fault. It's an athletic field. You assume risk the moment you step on it. Your nose could've been broken thanks to an errant throw of a football. What do you have to say to that, Marcia?"

"I don't even know what a 'football' is!" cried the rope-maker.

_And who is this 'Marcia'?_

"It doesn't matter," said Ranma. "I didn't ever want to see you again. I still think it would've been better if I hadn't. If you want to appeal to me, fine. Whatever. Just know this—I don't respond well to threats. Think about that the next time you try to breathe through your nose and can't. If there's anything else you have to say, get on with it. I'm listening. For now."

The rope-maker rose, studying the situation and her would-be allies. What thoughts passed through her mind Kohl couldn't imagine. Were he a traitor, a rebel against the Lady's authority, would righteous fervor drive him? Would he feel angry and alone for being the only one to resist out of many in the village? Yes, assuredly. Without doubt. Such rage and desperation would drive irrational decisions, offers of trust that were unsecured and unjustified. To say anything to Ranma, who'd shown such hostility, was nothing short of lunacy, yet the rope-maker hesitated but for a moment.

"Hear me or choose not to," she said, wiping her nose and rising, "for I am Rimmel, a rope-maker by trade, but I lead Sorcerers who wish to embrace the power of magic and escape the abominable bodies the Lady cages us in. Whether you listen or not, the Sorcerers of the Guard come to Japan on Sindoor's orders. They seek someone—not the Sieve, but someone just as important and precious."

Kohl narrowed his eyes. "And who is that?"

"The only person left who knows the Lady's secrets, who's lived, and escaped to remember them: the wanderer, Hibiki."

#

In the village of the Sorcerers, no outsider's name was better known—at least, not before the coming of Saotome Ranma. Before Ranma, _Hibiki_ was the outsider, fabled and mythical, for few others had happened upon the village, and none of them had been shown the way through the Maze. Those who couldn't find the straight path died there, but one escaped. He taught them about the outside world, about the special perspective another language and its concepts give to the same object—to the stars, to nature. The Lady said that, in learning from him, they could make the village a better place. They could build a haven, a paradise from the wars men inflicted in the outside world, from the battle men had fought at the banks of the river.

What became of Hibiki was something of a mystery in the village. No one expected he could leave on his own, but one day, he left—or, in the mind of Rimmel the rope-maker and her band of rebels, he _escaped_.

"He fled the Lady's tyranny," Rimmel had claimed. "What other explanation is there?"

What other explanation indeed. This Kohl couldn't say. Rimmel demanded that Ranma help find Hibiki before the Lady tracked him down. What Sindoor wanted from the first outsider was less clear. Secrets and information—that's what Rimmel assumed. Perhaps even an object of some power. The exact point was immaterial. Sindoor wanted Hibiki. She wanted him bad enough to send small expeditionary forces to Japan to make quick transport possible. Only someone with first-hand knowledge of Japanese shores could lead the ritual, the spell of making another's essence ride on ripples of ki to a faraway place. Sindoor had already sent men for this task, and one of them held loyalty to Rimmel. That was how she came to Japan, searching for Hibiki before Sindoor could track him down instead.

"Well, if it's Ryōga's pop you want, I haven't the slightest clue where he might be," admitted Ranma. "That whole family could get lost in a closet, even if they're all in the same one. The guy could be anywhere from Hokkaidō to Okinawa and you'd never know the difference."

"And what of the son?" asked Rimmel. "The son of Hibiki—you are close to him, aren't you?"

Ranma made a face. "Don't make me gag; _close_ isn't the word you mean. The closest we've ever been is when he used a magic fishing rod to try to woo me. The guy's no better than a freak sometimes."

To Kohl, it was a wonder someone like Ranma had the focus and drive to defy the Lady's will without getting caught up in throwing insults and verbal barbs.

Thankfully, no one would seriously oppose the Lady for some time. The rope-maker Rimmel came to Japan seeking Ranma's aid, hoping to find Hibiki, but Ranma had no idea where he—or his son—could be. "He can wander in at any time, or you might go months without seeing him. You never know when he'll come around. I'd think his pop would be about the same. These are big islands. You and Sindoor have plenty of ground to cover if you want to find them. Good luck."

"You won't help us?" asked Rimmel, incredulous. "You have no idea where Hibiki or his son is?"

Ranma shrugged. "If I did, wouldn't I tell you? I don't want you or Sindoor's goons running around here, but if there's one thing that family can do, it's get lost. If I do run into one of them, I can send you a postcard, though. What's the address of your tent?"

The rope-maker Rimmel went off in a huff, motioning for her posse to follow. "Don't think we're going away, Outsider! Sindoor's business is yours as much as ours. She won't give up on making you the next sieve."

"Yeah, sure, whatever."

The band Rimmel's Sorcerers scaled the wall surrounding the school grounds, disappearing from sight.

Ranma scoffed. "Good riddance, I say. That chick is nothing but trouble."

Kohl shot him a glance. "You really have no idea where Hibiki might be?"

"Not a clue," said Ranma. "Why? Do you?"

Kohl certainly didn't; it was Ranma's veracity he questioned, for as much as he wanted to believe the Outsider, history told Kohl to be wary and distrustful. All the same, Ranma gave no hint of lying as they headed for home. Indeed, it'd been a useful affair. Though the traitors would walk free, he knew they had someone high enough in the Guard to discover the Lady's intentions, and as long as Hibiki or his son weren't found, there would be little harm.

"Ah, Ranma-kun, Kohl-kun, welcome back." The eldest Tendō sister, Kasumi, greeted the pair on their return as she and Nodoka worked over the stove. "You're just in time for dinner."

"Thanks, it smells great," said Ranma. "Actually, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course. What is it?"

Ranma shot a look in Kohl's direction. "Do you know if P-chan's still around?"

#

Hibiki appeared after dinner.

_Appeared_ was the only way Kohl could think of it, at least, for _arrived_ would be misleading. Rather, as dinner was winding down, Ranma asked to be excused from the table, heading for the bath. Since Kohl himself wasn't welcome at the table (largely at Ranma's insistence), he paid this moment little mind, but when he felt the need to cleanse the sweat and grime of pollution from his skin, Kohl went to the bath, too, hoping Ranma was finished and long gone. After all, he didn't need to see the man naked on accident. Such misunderstandings never ended well, did they.

But Ranma was still in the bath, and judging by the hushed voices within, he wasn't alone.

"I don't know anything about where my father is," whispered Ryōga. "The most I hear from him is the occasional call or a package of souvenirs. He could be anywhere."

"But he must've told you something about them, right?" asked Ranma. "Something that Sindoor would want to keep quiet."

"Nothing but bedtime stories to help a young child get to sleep and dream."

"Aw…" Ranma snickered. "How very touching and sweet!"

"Shut up!"

Kohl leaned in closer, attempting to listen, but a board beneath his feet creaked. The voices in the bath quieted down, and there was a splashing of water. Kohl gave up the chance to hear more, for he snuck back toward the main room. When Ranma emerged later on, carrying the black piglet P-chan, the conclusion didn't escape Kohl at all. Ranma had known all along Ryōga was there, and if he meant to tell Kohl, it would be at a time and place of his own meticulous choosing, not before. It was a small blessing that Ranma wouldn't tell the rebels about Ryōga, either, but the situation was getting out of hand. If the outsiders found the elder Hibiki, would would they learn? What would they discover that the Lady didn't want unearthed?

The next morning, Kohl contacted the Lady once more, and her thoughts came through clear and adamant.

'_Nothing of consequence will come out, Captain. Of that, you can be assured.'_

Somehow, the Lady's definitive statements didn't carry as much supportive weight as they once had.

'_Nevertheless, we cannot risk such information falling into the rebels' hands. Find out what the son of Hibiki knows. If evidence of the father's whereabouts exists on paper, burn it. If it resides only in the mind of a man, kill him.'_

_But is it true, my lady? You seek Hibiki?_

'_I do.'_

_Why?_

'_Do you believe in our way of life, Captain? Do you believe in the sanctuary we've built? You needn't answer. I know you do. The rebels would seek out Hibiki and claim his memories are proof that the village is tainted, that my rule is unjust. That is patent falsehood, but some who already doubt would believe it.'_

Kohl needed information from the son of Hibiki, the boy Ryōga, and he needed it without revealing to Ryōga—or anyone else—his duplicity, his deception.

And to make matters worse, when he met the Tendō and Saotome families for breakfast, Ranma and "P-chan" were already gone.

"It's because Ryōga-kun came," Akane explained. "Ryōga-kun stopped by, trying to find his way home, and P-chan was starting to fall ill. He was coughing and wheezing and looked very pale. So to kill two birds, Ranma offered to take P-chan to Ryōga-kun's house. That way, Ryōga-kun would get home, and they could meet a friend of ours, Akari, who raises a lot of pigs and could figure out what was wrong with P-chan."

"Akane, is that really what happened?" asked Kasumi.

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"I mean, there's a reason we keep a set of Ryōga-kun's clothes here."

"Because his outfits gets soiled from traveling so much," said Akane.

"Yes, that's right!" cried Sōun. "It's a token to our family's hospitality, isn't it, Kasumi?"

The eldest sister's gaze lingered on her father for a long second, but she nodded in agreement without another word.

Kohl came in a step from outside, peering through the doorway. "The boy Hibiki can't find his own home?"

"No, it's very sad," said Akane. "Ranma has to lead him back for him to have any chance of making it."

"But how does he end up _here_?"

"Maybe there's something he's fond of around here," said the middle sister, Nabiki. "Or someone?"

"Someone?" echoed Akane. "Who could that be? Akari doesn't live around here."

"I didn't say _Akari_, now did I."

It seemed the Japanese national speciality was in keeping secrets from family for no apparent reason. Or, perhaps it was more accurate to say Tendō Akane was somewhat naÏve. She could find the strength inside herself to fight, but she showed Kohl trust and faith that was wholly unjustified. She believed in him, and Kohl could use that. On learning that Akane had been to Ryōga's home as well, Kohl crafted a simple plan: he'd give her a note to pass to Ranma with concerns about the rebels—something meaningless, for the content was unimportant. Akane would hesitate to tell him where Ryōga lived anyway, if she knew what was good for her at least, and it was better that Kohl not know directly. If he had to take action there, he needed deniability. How could he be somewhere if no one had told him where it was?

Regardless, Akane would take the note to Ranma, and Kohl would follow discreetly. At least, that was the theory. The problem was that, with his staff and apparel, discreet surveillance would be difficult to pull off.

So he started looking through a closet.

That was a mistake. In the face of a vast collection of dresses, skirts, blouses, and sweaters, in an array of colors that baffled him and made of fabrics he was sure couldn't have come from nature, Kohl shrank in horror from the overwhelming number of options. There were boxes stacked upon boxes inside—boxes, he found out, that were for storing shoes. What sane person needed to own six pairs of shoes? And that was just the first stack of boxes!

"Kohl-kun?" From her doorway, Tendō Akane tilted her head. "Is there something I can help you with?"

The most direct help would've been if she'd walk away, but Kohl knew that wasn't happening. He _was_ rummaging through her clothes, after all.

"Oh, I—if this is how you were feeling, you didn't have to be shy. I would've helped you if you'd asked."

_You'd have helped me steal some of your clothes to blend in? Are all you people insane?_

"I'm not the most stylish or elegant person, but maybe I can give you some tips?"

Kohl frowned. "Tips?"

"You know, like things to do with your hair. Maybe some makeup, other stuff, if you're looking to experiment."

Experiment?

As in, experiment with dressing and acting like a girl?

"Oh no, I misunderstood, didn't I?" Akane winced. "I'm so sorry; I shouldn't have assumed anything."

"I wanted to be able to leave and walk about but not attract too much attention." Kohl pulled on the fabric of his shirt. "This uniform is too distinctive, and I have to be in this body, for my safety."

"I see," said Akane. "Kohl-kun, you're very practical, aren't you? Well, my clothes might help with that, but maybe you'd be more interested in Ranma's. His are mostly well-suited to both a boy's and a girl's figure—by necessity, of course. You might find something that's more…neutral?"

_Wear _his _clothes?_ Kohl shuddered. "Is that necessary?"

"No, no, not at all! In that case, if changing back and forth isn't a problem, let me see…something you can fight in, right? Hmm…"

The two of them considered several options, ranging from a form-fitting striped sweater with denim shorts and high socks to a black "turtle-neck" covered by a gray pinafore with "stockings." And then there were _shorts_ and _skirts_. It was hard enough to see people wearing such things, but to consider doing so himself? What a sickening, disgusting thought. The very notion made him retch. Why did these people need to have such an obsession with exposing their legs?

"Hm, maybe Ranma's clothes would be a better idea after all?" asked Akane.

So it seemed. Given the choice between two nauseating prospects, Kohl decided on the lesser loss of dignity. At least he could justify the choice. Something Akane hadn't seen him try would make him harder to notice as he followed her. To Akane, Kohl dictated his worthless message—suggesting a vague idea about what Sindoor might want with Ryōga or his father—and she promised to get it to Ranma as soon as possible.

"It's no problem," she said. "I'll just call over there until they answer."

Call? Using those…those…telephone things?

"Yeah, it's practically instantaneous. I mean, limited by the speed of light?"

Limited by the speed—light had a _speed_? "I wouldn't do that," said Kohl, fumbling. "The Lady might hear you."

Akane raised an eyebrow. "Unless she can listen to phone wires, I don't think so."

"She has agents in Japan; Rimmel said so. They can sense the ripples and waves of ki. How can you be sure such a message is secure?"

"The Sorcerers are listening to phone conversations through magic ki waves?"

"Not knowing how this technology works, it wouldn't surprise me."

Akane laughed. "Kohl-kun, that's the silliest thing I've ever heard."

_For me, too, but I'm not the one who needs to believe it!_

Eying the note in her hands, Akane left the room for the downstairs phone, and Kohl dropped a coathanger on the bed, chasing after her. "Wait," he said. "Think about what you're doing."

"I'm going to make a phone call?"

"He ordered you to stay back when we met with the rebels."

"Who, Ranma? So what if he did?"

"And now, he's with Hibiki. They're searching that house right now, trying to find some trace of Hibiki's father, to find out where he might've gone, and _he_ left you behind. On purpose. Just as he left you behind, on purpose, yesterday."

Akane turned her head, studying him with a sidelong gaze. "What does any of this has to do with your message?"

"It's wrong that he excludes you," said Kohl. "The message doesn't mean anything. I thought if you had reason to go there, he wouldn't have grounds to keep you away. You're a capable warrior. I've seen it. Why he thinks you need to be sheltered, protected, I don't understand."

"Ranma's just worried about me." The two of them reached the ground floor, and Akane's path to the hallway phone was clear. "It's not unusual; I'm used to it."

"Then why did you argue last night? If you didn't want to be there, why did you argue? There's no danger in what they're doing now. They're searching a house for clues. Why should he protect you from that? In the Guard, we never refused an extra pair of hands to assist in a job that needed doing. Perhaps he's right to be concerned when there is the possibility of danger, of combat, but this is a search for information. You said yourself when he put his armor on, he wouldn't listen to anyone. Can you let him continue to do that?"

Akane picked up the phone and dialed, by feel rather than sight, for her gaze fixed on Kohl—nay, it shot past him as she pondered his words, but she'd yet to make her decision. If she had, she would've put the phone down. What more did Kohl have to say to convince her?

The answer to that was obvious. While Ranma hadn't outright lied to her about taking Ryōga to his home, there was one secret Kohl was privy to that he could break. It would drive a wedge in their relationship. Was that damage worth the gain of finding the elder Hibiki? Would Ranma have the ties—the bonds—necessary to become Sieve after such a revelation?

Kohl wasn't sure, but he was willing to risk it as Akane put the handset to her ear. "What if," he began, "what if I told you Hibiki was already here, and that Ranma knew it?"

Akane took no time to answer. She covered the mouthpiece and held him with a steady glare. "That's a silly thing to say, Kohl-kun. Don't do that again."

A voice came through the other end of the line. "Hello? Hibiki residence? Hello?"

"I'll have to tell Ranma all about that," Akane finished, and she hung up the phone. "Do try Ranma's clothes if you want. If you go through mine again without asking, I won't be so helpful. Understand?"

At last, Kohl let out a breath, giving a slight nod.

#

As Akane left the Tendō home, Kohl followed. A high-collared shirt, faded purple in color, and loose-fitting pants were all Kohl could find to blend in. Overall, the outfit was too large, more so on Kohl than it would've been on Ranma. The bagginess in the shirt Ranma could handle thanks to an ample bust, which Kohl noticeably lacked as a girl, but as long as Kohl's opponents weren't grabbing or clawing at him, Ranma's clothes would do. They offered freedom of movement and a chance, however slim, to trail Akane unnoticed.

The path to Ryōga's home took Kohl to the train station—a place where boxy metal machines came and went at will. He clung to the back of one of these vehicles when Akane boarded it, and the spinning of massive metal wheels propelled him across the city. Through tunnels and over bridges, Kohl witnessed the wonders of modern engineering. That city—the so-called eastern capital—never seemed to end. It sprawled as far as the eye could see. Where the Lady had built one tower to touch the sky, the outsiders had assembled hundreds. Their power didn't come from their machines or advancements. Sorcerer magic could do anything they could.

Rather, their power came from numbers. People everywhere, needing room to live and means to get from place to place. How did they get to be so many? By lying with each other as often as they pleased? They seemed to relish exposing themselves—at least, to a point. In the way they dressed, in the images they put on giant, rectangular spaces overlooking streets and railways, they worshiped each other's bodies. It was truly a den of sin. That's what the Lady would say, and Kohl was hard-pressed to disagree. They let their emotions rule them. That's why it was so easy to persuade Akane, to play on her desires and insecurities.

Such weaknesses would doom her relationship with Ranma and help break him, help turn him into the Sieve. And Kohl would be at the forefront of that effort, the tip of the spear. The only cost to him would be time—the sacrifice of being away from his people, from Tilaka. Once he brought the Sieve to his rightful place at the top of the tower, all would be right with the world.

Ryōga's home was smaller than the Tendō compound but no less spacious to Kohl's eyes. Two floors it had, with curved, patterned shingles on the rooftop. Kohl waited across the street, hiding atop a neighbor's home until Akane and Ranma headed home. Ryōga stayed behind. What did that mean? They found nothing? To answer that, Kohl waited until nightfall and beyond. He withstood the cool spring breeze and crept under faded starlight to Ryōga's door.

A locked door, sealed windows—they were no obstacle to Kohl. Attuned to the flows and eddies of ki, he felt the lock mechanism in his mind and defeated it, opening the deadbolt. He floated over the threshold silently, lest his footsteps make a sound.

The first room he happened on was the kitchen. Weak magnets pinned images to the refrigerator—photos of a man, a woman, and a boy at various ages. The details of these pictures were meaningless to Kohl—a tilted tower, a green statue of a woman with a pointed crown—but their content stuck in his mind. The three of them were a family. Hibiki, his wife, and his son had lived together, grown together, and documented their happy memories with these photographs. The boy Ryōga knew his parents, and even if they both had a propensity for losing their way, he'd known them from childhood to the present, a time when he'd soon become a man.

Knowing one's parents and relying on them—was that sin, too?

Finding nothing, Kohl moved on to the main room, where by the dinner table, Kohl discovered an open box. Longer than his arm and at least as wide, it was heavy. All this Kohl could feel without moving it, but the contents made no sense to him. More photos, small pouches of seeds and nuts, handcrafted wooden knick-knacks—what did they mean?

They must've come from Hibiki, from the father. He called himself a traveler. He'd talked about bringing objects home. Was there some hint of his whereabouts inside? In lines and markings, in writing, that Kohl could hardly understand?

Perhaps. But would the souvenirs inside be half-strewn about the floor, disorganized and scattered?

But there was something else. Something that didn't belong—a leather-bound notebook, faded and dusty. Kohl flipped through the pages. They were written on from beginning to end, and right away, Kohl knew whom it belonged to. The father, Hibiki, liked to keep records of his travels. That must've been what distressed the Lady. One man's memories can become confused and distorted, but written records are unchanging. They're a testament to the past, to a chaotic time after the Riverfolk War that might reflect badly on the Lady or the village as a whole. Hibiki had a notebook—nay, a journal—like that one, but were they the same?

Doubtlessly not, for there was another journal beneath it.

Kohl took them both with him, but there had to be others. Where did he keep them?

Kohl searched the rest of the ground floor, and at the southern corner of the home, he happened across an office. Atop a wooden desk, stained and lacquered, there sat a metal sphere, painted largely blue but in many colors and adorned with patterned lines. Kohl recognized some of the characters. The painted globe was some sort of representation of different landmasses, of the world as a whole.

The desk was centered amid full bookshelves—one side stacked in texts, the other adorned with banners, carvings, and other souvenirs.

And on a single row, all to themselves, leather-bound journals sat side-by-side with one another, bookended by miniature, gold-colored dragon statues. Two slots were empty, and Kohl replaced the missing journals in their respective spots, thinking on what best to do. Long before, the wanderer Hibiki came to the Sorcerer village with tales of the outside world, and the Lady had encouraged him, welcomed his insights to make a lesson of the outsiders, to teach children about the need for stability in a sea of chaos. Truly, those tales had scarcely prepared Kohl for the world beyond the village, but though Japan was a bewildering place, he kept his purpose in venturing there at the forefront of his thoughts. For the village, for Tilaka, for the service of the Lady. The Lady had taught them to bury their history of the times before the war, to make the rebuilt village a place of peace and solace. The outsiders had no such need to forget the past, to abstain from touching one another in pleasure, to never know their children, and Kohl had no desire to impose the village's ways on them. Nevertheless, when the village's interests and the outsiders' conflicted, he knew what he'd choose. The decision was simple, no matter how many unusual experiences living in Japan would deal him. He wouldn't be led astray.

He'd do what was necessary to end his exile, to finish his tenure as captain and live, all the time, in the body he was meant to walk in.

One by one, with the touch of his fingertips, he lit the journals aflame. Wispy trails of smoke wafted to the ceiling, and a shrill beeping pierced the night. There was a barking—the cries of an animal—and light broke through the darkness from up the distant stair.

"Shirokuro! Come here, girl! Stay with me; I'll put the fire out."

A ball of dense air gathered in Kohl's hand, and he pushed it through the exterior wall. Into the night he fled, with Ranma's baggy pants whipping at his ankles.

* * *

**Next:** With the Sorcerer Guard having touched Ranma's life once more, Shampoo sees an opportunity to reclaim lost honor, to prove herself worthy of her tribe and Ranma, even if neither will take her. **Coming June 1, 2012: "No Place of Sanctuary" Part IV - "Wounds of a Warrior"**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, check out my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com


	53. Sanctuary IV: Wounds of a Warrior

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid**. A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here?** Shampoo led a party of her people and others to rescue Ranma from the Sorcerers, but now that he's safe, the weight of tribal law bears down on her.

* * *

**Wounds of a Warrior**

_Chapter Eight, Act Four_

Rice, soybeans, noodles, tofu. Ginger, sesame oil, soy sauce, cinnamon. These and other ingredients make up Chinese cuisine. While a chef measures out her needs in terms of cups or teaspoons or kilograms, a simple laborer—a delivery girl—counts the restaurant's needs in bags or cash, whether it be the Chinese Yuan or the Japanese Yen. Whatever is used and consumed over the course of one day must be replaced by the next, and that requires counting. There was a word for this task, one Shampoo hardly liked.

_Inventory_.

It was the fine art of counting boxes or examining sacks of rice. Weary and tired, Shampoo tapped a pencil at air, tabulating cans of soybeans. In furry slippers and pink pajamas, she took inventory of the Cat Café's storeroom, a maze of shelves and cardboard boxes. When she finished tabulating the cans, she scribbled lazily on a ruled notepad, and with crossed eyes, she started on the boxes of tea. It was monotonous, repetitive work. She loathed it. Over the course of several days since returning to Japan, Shampoo had taken inventory on that notepad, and in the margins, she'd started to do some calculations of her own. The room was six strides by eight, in her judgment, with four levels of shelves on each wall and a pile of rice sacks and boxes in the middle. Assuming she could swing a pair of maces twice every three seconds, how long would it take to demolish that storeroom and rip the nails from the walls with brute force? What about the whole restaurant? Or the entire block?

_Not long enough,_ she thought. _It would be over in a heartbeat, and nothing would change._

Six o'clock on a Wednesday morning, and it was no different from any other since returning. The warrior who'd led her people against the Sorcerers was reduced to a simple peon away from home. Work began early, with inventory and a supply run to the market. That was her part, and she dealt with it as best as she could. Once the Cat Café was adequately supplied, she had time to herself, and she used it as she saw fit:

She followed Ranma and Akane.

She'd done it discreetly at first, from a distance. While they studied at the library with Ukyō, Shampoo had little to fear. Foolish though Ranma was for taking to Akane, he was hardly bold when it came to matters of the heart—or at least, he didn't used to be before he took Akane on a date.

Shampoo frowned. No, that was a mistake—a misconception about him, something she'd neglected to realize. Ranma _could_ be bold in such matters when pushed far enough. All along, she hoped to present herself as the only girl who could fight by his side as an equal. She thought, if she offered her body's pleasures to him often enough, he'd wear down and take her in a fit of temptation, but in truth, Ranma was stubborn, in both combat and matters of love. Against implacable foes, he might retreat or regroup if he lacked advantage, but he never gave in forever, and when angered, there was no one more fierce.

Shampoo knew that well. Though the bruise on her wrist had long since healed, she could still feel it—the pressure of his steely grip. When she'd attacked Akane, Ranma intervened. He stopped her. He wrenched the bulbous chúi from her hands, and it was all anyone could do—all _Akane_ could do—to rouse him from his rage, to keep him from snapping Shampoo's arm in half.

And that wasn't the most recent time he'd rejected her.

#

After the debacle over the Sorcerer defector, the Amazons were at last able to tend to their wounded, asses their losses in warriors and equipment, and address the lingering matter that had driven the Amazons to war in the first place: the Last Right of a wife, Shampoo's right to lead an expedition in search of Ranma, the man she was meant by law to take as her husband. On his safe return to the village, the Last Right had been fulfilled, and it was time for Shampoo to face judgment for what she'd done.

She presented herself before the Council of Elders—in front of narrow-eyed Bindi, whose skepticism and edge had only increased in the shadow of horrific losses at the Sorcerer village; bald and weary Thanaka, who looked a decade older for his part in pushing for war; and never-changing Surma, who regarded Shampoo with a steady gaze, unflappable in the face of uncertain times. The hooded figures of the Silent Nine surrounded Shampoo, their eyes hidden and thus inscrutable. Shampoo stood alone by the meeting fire until Cologne and Ranma emerged from the thicket to join the Council in session.

"Welcome, Saotome Ranma, son of Nodoka and Genma," Elder Surma began, for in matters of procedure and decorum, her position as Third Speaker gave her the prerogative to begin the Council's deliberations. "The Council convenes in open session to assess the state of your betrothal to Shampoo. You've stated that you have no intention to wed Shampoo willingly. Is that correct?"

Cologne whispered a translation in Ranma's ear—not all the Council understood Japanese, so it was deemed fairest to conduct the session in the Amazons' native tongue—and when she finished, Ranma's response was simple. "It is," he said, and Cologne made his sentiment known to the others on the Council who couldn't comprehend.

"Then the Council will make its judgment on this matter," said Surma, "that it is not in the interests of the Tribe to use our collective force to keep you here and compel you to consummate your union."

Shampoo twitched. They were letting him go? They'd let him walk a free man out of the village when every able body could stand in his way? What about her duty? What about the law that demanded she make him her husband? Did that mean nothing to these old fools?

"It is our hope that you'll consider what our people have sacrificed to help free you," Speaker Surma explained, "and that in future conflicts with the Sorcerers, we may count on your aid."

"Anything to drive those bastards from Jusenkyō," said Ranma.

Unbelievable. They were selling her out. The vaunted elders of the village had bought Ranma's good graces at a price of Shampoo's honor. A low, low price in their eyes, perhaps, but Shampoo wasn't about to let them get away with it. "Elder," she began, "may I speak?"

"It is your right," said Surma.

"Then I ask if what I hear is true," said Shampoo. "The Council of my Elders set law for the Tribe: that any girl who is defeated in fair combat by a man must marry that man if she is able and unwed. From age five, we're taught that the finest warriors should journey from the village and discover the outsiders' world, that we should find strong men out there and bring them home. Council has ability to decide, yet you sacrifice my good name to make yourselves feel safer. You _know_ what that shame would mean for me."

"Allow me to answer this charge, Third," said Bindi.

Nodding, Elder Surma stepped back. "The First Speaker will make her remarks."

"The Council's duty is to protect the interests of the village and the rights of the people. It's true; you won't receive the Council's support in this matter, but pursuing Saotome Ranma is still your right, and if you can compel him to stay in the village and become your husband by your own doing, the Council will honor the deed."

The Council's judgment: if she could defeat Ranma, all would be forgiven.

"Wait, what does that mean?" asked Ranma. "It's a fight?"

_Yes, Airen—we fight, and I throw the first punch._

Ranma sidestepped Shampoo's fist, and the Elders of the Council abandoned their seats, clearing the area around the fire.

"This is grossly improper!" said Speaker Bindi. "There cannot be violence in the Council's presence!"

These Elders—they hid behind rules. They'd tried to bury her, to silence her so she'd never get Ranma back, so Amazon and Sorcerer would never meet on the field of battle again. The Council's rules meant nothing to Shampoo. Proving that she was every bit a fighter as Ranma, that she was deserving of him and his children—she thought of nothing else. For that, she traded blows with the man she loved. The ringing as his fist impacted her cheek, the crunch as he threw her against a tree trunk—they fueled her passion, her drive to match him. She gave as good as she got, landing a knee to his gut, scratching with her nails across his face, but even then, Ranma fought with one hand tied behind his back. He knew impressive magics that he could draw upon, knowing how they'd turn the battle in his favor, yet he held back.

"This won't change anything," said Ranma, ducking her furious blows. "Even if you could beat me here, what then? Is that really good enough for you, that you have to take me down so I'll stay? What happens after that? You tie me up and make it official?"

"If that what it take, yes!" she cried. "A thousand times over!"

A sweeping kick drove Shampoo's legs out from under her. Her hip thudded on the hard earth.

"Isn't that sad?" asked Ranma, towering over her without finishing her off. "Don't you want someone who loves you?"

"You will," said Shampoo. "Ranma only have to see what Shampoo can offer. Shampoo make Ranma love her in time."

Ranma frowned. "You might be right."

Really? Ranma was…beginning to see her as a woman? To appreciate her?

Ranma's fingertips glistened with frost, and Shampoo felt cold. A crushing, icy weight pressed against her neck on all sides. It pinned her to the ground, and she clawed at it, coughing, choking, gasping for air. A band of ice shackled her neck to the earth, and though she pulled and scratched at it with her hands, her fingers slipped off the smooth, wet surface.

"Great-grandmother!" she called out. "Help me!"

"Careful, Ranma," said Cologne. "If you attempt to kill a member of the Tribe, our justice will no know borders."

"Relax," he assured her. "Nobody dies today, but I think I've made my point. You can't hope to beat me, Shampoo. Stop trying to. Stop trying to make me love you when I don't. That's the reason you haven't gained my favor. You were never willing to accept _no_ for an answer."

Ranma headed down the slopes from the Council's meeting place, and Shampoo reached for him with outstretched fingers, as if to hold on to one last image of him before he left her sight. "Great-grandmother, stop him!" she cried. "Help me win this battle!"

But Cologne gently shook her head. "I've helped you before, Shampoo. This time, I can't. There's too much to lose by pursuing him, child. Too much to give up."

That was a lie. A convenient lie she'd convinced herself of. Like the Council, Cologne feared the Sorcerer threat more. She was counting on Ranma to be their ace in the hole, the one to bring down Sindoor's empire and shed light on a decades-old mystery.

She cared for her missing granddaughter, Ceruse, over her own living flesh and blood.

Without Ranma at her side as her husband, Shampoo had no place in the village. Unlike the last time, when she'd come home empty-handed, there was no question of law to give her temporary shelter. She'd been given a reprieve once; she wouldn't get another. If she returned to the village without Ranma in tow once more, the shame and stigma she'd incur would be unspeakable. As it was, everyone in the village must've known her plight and thought her pathetic and unworthy because of it. No matter how powerful Ranma was, her people expected—they _demanded_—that she take him back with her and bear his children. It was the law. For the good of the village and the Tribe, it was the law.

Not that her great-grandmother hadn't tried to change it. Though she refused to help subdue Ranma, Cologne argued before the Council that the law was outdated and of no use. "The children Shampoo would bear can't help fight the Sorcerers," she pointed out. "They would take too long to raise and grow, and this time, men and women have fought and died for the Tribe in equal numbers. There is no more reason for this law. I know, because I helped to enact it!"

But the Council rejected her plea, in large part because Shampoo herself refused to ask for such an act of pity. To her, the pursuit of Ranma was by no means finished. That Akane had his eye for the moment didn't mean any relationship there would last. And to remind herself her task was incomplete, she wore the Choker of Silence—the quartz necklace that, in her native village, would condemn her to speak only to her family and no one else. Though the Council had dealt her no punishment, Shampoo was dissatisfied. It wasn't enough to go back to Japan and continue pursuing Ranma as she'd done before. She wore the necklace as a constant reminder of what awaited her if she failed. That way, she'd never relent in her pursuit.

"Shampoo." At the door to the storeroom, Mousse peered inside. "Shampoo, can you hear me?"

Hearing was one thing, but she forbade herself to answer him. He wasn't family. Anyone else in the Tribe, anyone who wasn't family, would see the gems around her neck and treat her as anathema, but Mousse was stubborn and foolishly devoted to her. Even that Choker of Silence couldn't keep him away.

"You're not talking to me still? Please, why don't you forget about Saotome? We can live in exile together. I would stand by your side forever."

Shampoo jotted down supply tallies, counting up cans of peas.

"Right, you only have eyes for _him_, don't you? Well, be still your beating heart, then. You have an opportunity to see him."

To see Ranma? Shampoo looked away from her notepad, staring blankly.

"Get changed," said Mousse. "Ryōga was just on the phone. The Sorcerers are back, and they went after him. He's in a hospital. Ranma's probably on his way there, and we should be going, too."

#

"It was a quarter to one."

His eyes bloodshot and inflamed, Ryōga lay flat on his back. He gazed upward, toward the ceiling, with a dull and unfocused look. A crowd of visitors gathered at his side. In the front row, Cologne, Akane, Ukyō, and Shampoo stood. Behind them, Mousse polished his glasses. The Sorcerer Kohl in his female body tapped his staff on the floor, pondering, and Ranma—

CRUNCH!

And Ranma snacked on a packet of saltines. Unconcerned with the noise of his munching, Ranma earned dark glares from several of the others, to which he only shrugged. "What's the problem?" he said. "We skipped breakfast coming straight here. It's not like she'll die, right?"

All eyes turned to Ryōga once more, who shook off his fatigue, carrying on. "It was a quarter to one," he recounted. "Ranma and Akane-san had left about an hour after dark. All afternoon, we'd gone through my father's journals and souvenirs, looking for some clue where he might be or what he learned about the Sorcerers while he lived among them. I couldn't remember the year he visited them. I thought it was sometime before I'd been born, but I couldn't be sure. I kept looking through his writings until midnight. When I woke up, the smoke detector was blaring. Shirokuro didn't like the sound of it; the noise confused her. Trying to keep her calm, I didn't see who burned my father's journals or how many of them there were. It was all I could do to save the rest of Father's library before it turned to ash."

Crunch. "You should've run after them," said Ranma, his voice muffled with his mouth full. "Stuff can be replaced. Not finding the Sorcerers who did this isn't something you can take back."

Akane shot him a dirty look. "Really, Ranma, can't you show Ryōga-kun some kindness? He's in pain right now!"

"It's not like he has third-degree burns over seventy percent of his body," said Ranma. "Looking all zoned out like that—he's just being melodramatic."

"Excuse me, Hibiki-san?" A nurse peered into the room. "Hibiki-san, I have good news. It seems your dog is only suffering slight ill effects from smoke inhalation. You can see her now."

"I can?" Ryōga bolted upright, and he scampered off the waiting room sofa, meeting the nurse at the doorway. "I can see Shirokuro now? She's going to be all right?"

"Yes, just follow me." The nurse led him down a side hallway, out of sight.

Crunch. "Don't know what you guys were making a fuss about," said Ranma. "We're in an animal hospital, and you're all crowding around him like he's on his deathbed. What's the deal?"

"Ryōga-kun was up all night worrying about Shirokuro," said Akane. "You could be more considerate."

" 'Considerate,' huh?" Ranma snapped a cracker in two, popping one of the halves into his mouth. "Here's me being more considerate—if the Sorcerers had attacked while the three of us were still in that house, _somebody_ might've ended up in a real hospital instead of criticizing me at a vet's."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what it means! Next time, don't come after me just because you're curious or whatever! It's not like the two of us needed help looking through books and things!"

"Maybe if we'd had _more_ help, we could've found out what Ryōga-kun's father found out before the Sorcerers attacked!"

"That's what I'm saying," Ranma concluded. "You being there didn't make a bit of difference, so you shouldn't have come in the first place!"

"Oh really!"

"Yeah, really!"

Back and forth they argued, and for Shampoo, though it was a typical sight, she relished it all the same. The underlying reasons why they fought were no help to her—Ranma, concerned for Akane's safety, wanted her as far as possible from danger, yet Akane, wanting to be a good partner to Ranma, ignored his warnings. Their combined stubbornness and refusal to confront such feelings gave Shampoo fodder and ammunition. Their fighting inspired hope. At some point, the worries and insecurities they'd never admit to one another would dwarf whatever attraction they felt. Every harsh word they traded was further proof that Shampoo was in the right. Patience would reward her, as long as she chose their weakest moment to strike.

And she wasn't the only one with such thoughts on her mind. From the double-doored hallway, Ryōga returned. Neither fatigue nor smoke could keep him from staring intently at the scene before him, shaking his head in disapproval.

"Well?" Shampoo asked him innocently. "Dog is doing well now, yes?"

"Huh? Oh, yes, she's going to be fine. They just want to monitor her for a few more hours to be sure." Looking past Shampoo, Ryōga narrowed his eyes, looking at Ranma, then Akane. "What's that about?"

Shampoo pursed her lips. "Who can say? Why they fight make no sense to Shampoo."

"It's a crime," he muttered, shaking his fist. "Akane-san is so genuine and kind, yet Ranma abuses her at every opportunity."

Shampoo fought back a roll of the eyes. Ryōga's deification of Akane bored her, but it played in her favor, so it was in her best interest not to mock him. While Ranma and Akane's latest spat was encouraging, Shampoo wasn't so naÏve to think it would sever their relationship. That would take work. It would take cunning and manipulation. It would take the efforts of not only her but an ally or two, and as allies could go, at least Ryōga wasn't competition for Ranma, too—at least, rumors of a magic fishing rod incident aside.

"Do you know the lengths he went through to lie to her yesterday?" said Ryōga. "He crafted an elaborate story about how I wandered into town, how P-chan had fallen ill overnight and needed medical help. It took him less than a minute to put that together, and he said it all to Akane-san's face with no hesitation, no guilt. He's a monster, you know. Always has been."

Shampoo frowned. "Ryōga lies to Akane, too."

"But that's different!" he insisted. "I'm not the who's supposed to tell her the truth even when it hurts. I'm not the one who's job it is to shelter and protect her." He let out a breath, deflating. "I'm not the one she's in love with."

_Whatever double standard works for you, pig boy._ Shampoo leaned against the wall. "If left alone, Ranma and Akane could marry, even if it bad for both of them. Akane is blind to Ranma's flaws. You know this, don't you?"

Ryōga nodded solemnly.

"Something must be done about it," she argued. "Before it's too late."

"What do you mean? What are you suggesting?"

"Only that we talk. When one see Ranma and Akane fight, tell the other and discuss. We find way to break them up. Is for their own good. Is good for us, too."

"Why should I work with you? You tried to kill Akane-san, remember?"

Shampoo gritted her teeth. Really, you try to kill a rival one time, and no one else would let you forget it. Things were much easier when there was more slapstick comedy in their lives and people overlooked such things. "Shampoo know Ryōga not let that happen. If two of us keep working separate, we may fail. Ranma and Akane live happy ever after, or worse—unhappy because they no should be together, but what done is done. Is irresponsible not to do all that can be done to break them up. Ryōga think so too, yes?"

"Perhaps." Ryōga stared past her, at Akane. "As long as she's happy…"

_You mean, 'As long as she's happy with me,' don't you?_

Shampoo and Ryōga shuffled back into the waiting area, and with the group reassembled, they could discuss their next move. Ranma and Ryōga resolved to head back to the Hibiki home, salvage what they could, and bring it all to the Tendō residence for study. While the journals were most likely unreadable, Ryōga thought his father's last souvenir package would hold the key—if they could only figure out where and when most of the stuff came from.

"The box?" asked Kohl. "You mean—you mean the Guard didn't touch it?"

"When I made it downstairs, the box was untouched," said Ryōga. "They must not have known it was anything important."

Kohl frowned at this, but he said nothing more. Lastly, for the full explanation, Ranma recounted how he met with the Sorcerer rebels, who tipped him off that Sindoor's target was Ryōga's father.

"These rebels," began Cologne, "how many are there?"

"Five, plus Rimmel," said Ranma. "If they really mean to fight Sindoor, there'd better be more of them. Personally, I want nothing to do with that rope-maker bitch, but they'll go away faster if we get what Sindoor wants—either that, or she gets it herself."

This talk of rebels intrigued Cologne, and she pressed on about their capabilities, their level of infiltration—most of which Ranma couldn't or didn't want to answer. He could barely point out the direction they left the high school, but what little he had said clearly affected Cologne—and Shampoo as well, for though the great-grandmother and her kin had different motives, both relished the prospect of renewed conflict with the Sorcerers. Even the most humiliated and despised warrior could earn back her respect in service of the Tribe.

And if battle came, Ranma would see how Shampoo handled herself, too. She didn't need protecting and fawning over like Akane. She wouldn't hesitate to do dark deeds in his name or doubt her own capabilities at the most inconvenient moments. Akane's doubt and self-righteousness nearly got all of them killed. It _did_ get them all mind-controlled so that any Phoenix tribesman who got close enough could give them orders and command their thoughts at will.

None of that mattered to Ranma, though. He fought with Akane one minute, and the next—with the meeting at the animal hospital adjourned—he walked her to the bus station like nothing was wrong. He could forgive and forget Akane's sins, but not Shampoo's. He was blind to depths of Akane's flaws. All Shampoo had to do was bring them to light.

"I see what you're doing." Ukyō caught Shampoo outside the animal hospital, falling into step beside her. "First me, then Ryōga. Who's next? Kodachi?"

"Flower girl?" said Shampoo. "No."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"Already approach her. No can work together. Laughter get annoying after not too long."

Ukyō scoffed. "I see your point. It's the way she holds her hand in front of her mouth, right? With a tilt? And then she just keeps laughing and laughing, even when the joke stopped being funny a long time ago."

"Make Shampoo want to feed her to her crocodile."

The okonomiyaki chef shot her a harsh look. "Clever. Look, you have to know Ryōga won't let you harm Akane-chan—or if you do, he'll come after you just as hard as Ranchan will."

"Whatever it take to win Ranma," said Shampoo.

"That's why it'll all be for naught. You're willing to go too far."

Shampoo narrowed her eyes. "And you aren't?"

Ukyō shuddered, looking away.

"Thought so," said Shampoo.

"You do what you like." Ukyō took a step, walking away from Shampoo and the hospital lobby. "But you'd best be careful. The last thing you want to do in going after him is make yourself into something you're not, something you wouldn't want to be."

What foolish sentiment. The only person Shampoo should make herself into was one Ranma would love.

#

By no means was that the view Shampoo had grown up with. More often than not, warrior girls of the village—the ones trained to seek out strong men and empower the Tribe with their young—carried with them an air of instinctive superiority. Even to the man who'd defeat her, no woman of the Tribe seriously considered the possibility that she'd fail in enticing him to be her husband, if indeed such a man could best her at all. Bad enough was the humiliation Shampoo suffered—being defeated in fair combat by another girl during the tournament that should've marked her ascension as a up-and-coming, great warrior. To find out he was a man instead and wouldn't bow to her charms or be coerced instead…

Well, she wouldn't let that the specter of failure sap her resolve. She'd seen others come home without their husbands. Their families quietly tucked them away, never to be seen. If they walked around in daylight, they cloaked themselves in shawls to hide their faces. Shampoo wasn't so weak. She wouldn't cover herself, but if she had to transform her very essence and being to do what the law compelled her to do, so it would be. She faced the possibilities without fear, for nothing else mattered to her. The Tribe's law was the word of gods. She could no sooner give up or surrender to failure than cut her own heart out. She would no longer be a warrior if she did such a thing—regardless of whether others in the Tribe thought so, she would know it herself.

The path back to Ranma's good graces and respect from her people lay in showing her prowess as a warrior. Ranma had shown her up because he knew the best of both magic and physical combat, but her skills in martial arts—whether practiced in exhibition or weaponized on a battlefield—were still the key to Ranma's favor. He knew what sacrifices she'd made to rescue him. Whatever anger he felt over her attempt to kill Akane had surely died down. Why else would he restrain himself in front of her? Sooner or later, he would understand what Shampoo had to offer. War with the Sorcerers was once again near, and Akane wasn't the right person to watch Ranma's back. Ranma must've known that, or he wouldn't have made her stay home while he sought out the evidence the Sorcerers hoped to destroy.

Thus, she welcomed the prospect of the Sorcerers' return—as much as her great-grandmother did, though for different reasons. When Cologne made for the telegraph office and commanded Mousse and Shampoo to close the Cat Café to guests, Shampoo smiled to herself. It meant Cologne would seek the Council's approval to enter this fight, and knowing how persuasive her great-grandmother could be, Shampoo had no doubt Cologne would win it.

What she didn't expect was for the hours to pass dully into afternoon until, at last in twilight, three knocks rang against the main door. Cologne would see no need to knock, surely, and when Shampoo answered the door, it wasn't the small old woman she found there, either.

"What's this?" said Elder Surma. "Why are you wearing that necklace? I'd know if you were silenced. Allow us to enter. Cologne wishes it."

Elder Surma, Cologne's trusted disciple and Third Speaker of the Council. _Us_ referred to her and the warrior who stood as her escort. She was shorter than Shampoo, only by the thickness of a few leaves, but the height of her eyes gave it away. Her hair was dark and shiny and cut at the level of her chin.

"You remember young Marula, don't you? She's to be my protection while I'm here—and, perhaps, much more."

Marula—the girl who found wreckage outside the spring ground, giving the first substantive proof that the Sorcerers had returned and Ranma needed help. She'd joined Shampoo's party and become lost within the mountain, ending up a prisoner to the deranged Sorcerer priest Henna. In her grotesque experiments, Henna doused Marula with a mixture of spring waters, turning her into a impossible creature, and Henna would've done worse if Ranma hadn't intervened. He rescued Marula, but the Elders kept Marula off the front lines for the rest of the conflict. They must've known she was weak for letting herself be captured, or perhaps her curse crippled her. What other explanations were there?

But Marula, just a year younger than Shampoo, faced her senior with confidence and respect, the look in her eyes encouraging Shampoo to speak despite the necklace that hung around her neck.

"Shampoo? Who's that at the door?" Mousse came up from behind, peering around her to get a good look at the guests. "Oh, Elder! Please, come in, both of you. Sorry for making you wait; we just weren't expecting you."

"It's no trouble, Mousse," said Elder Surma. "There was no time to send back to Cologne that she should prepare for our arrival. The Council met as soon as possible to discuss the situation and the best course. And so, here I am."

Showering the Elder in pleasantries, Mousse showed Surma and Marula into the restaurant. It was unusual enough to see an Elder of the Council away from home, but Surma was armed—with no more than a simple dagger, granted, but in the hands of someone trained by Cologne, even the most basic of weapons could be immeasurably lethal. Marula, too, carried a weapon: a pair of dense metal spheres, bound together by braided rope—a double-headed meteor hammer, which she kept tied to her belt. Surma knew there could be combat. She was prepared and ready for it. Why else would she come to Japan armed, and so quickly at that?

"What, if I may ask, _is_ the Council's decision?" asked Mousse.

"To meet with the Sorcerer rebels and gauge if they are worth our support," said Surma. "It was a reluctant move. Truly, the Council had hoped—or I should say, the First Speaker had hoped—that the Sorcerers would wall themselves off in their village and we'd hear nothing more of them until they rebuilt. That they're willing to move on Japan so quickly puts many on the Council ill at ease. Cologne is seeking out these rebels as we speak. Hopefully we can soon discuss the matter in person."

"And you've brought a bodyguard," observed Mousse. "Hello again, Marula."

The girl with the meteor hammer bowed slightly.

"Not just a bodyguard," said Surma. "If some agreement with the rebels should be made, Marula here will run point to guarantee our interests."

Marula beamed with pride. For a young warrior, there could be no greater mark of status and standing. Completing a mission for the Council would instantly garner respect from the other villagers. It was a testament to Marula's ambition to accept this task, but such an unwavering pursuit of goals meant nothing to Shampoo. What mattered was what would happen when Amazons and Sorcerer rebels worked together to thwart Sindoor. Marula, or someone like her, would be in the lead, taking command and earning all the pride and glory that came with it—the pride and glory Shampoo wanted for herself. Marula wasn't just another girl from the village there to make her bones.

She was Shampoo's replacement.

#

Within the hour, Cologne returned to the Cat Café with a posse of Sorcerers in tow. "Wouldn't have taken so long if you'd told Ranma where you were going," she chided their leader. "Didn't you people think to do that?"

"The Outsider seemed in no mood to hear us out," said Rimmel. "But we're glad to see the Riverfolk have as little love of Sindoor as we and are willing to do something about it, unlike the Outsider whose sanity is at risk."

The rebel leader, Rimmel, was a woman in her mid-twenties, or so Shampoo guessed, and the image of someone so young negotiating with Cologne and Surma was a strange sight indeed. Nevertheless, Rimmel steadfastly maintained she was the leader of the movement, and the Amazon Council would have to treat her as such. Cautiously, Cologne and Surma discussed the rebel movement's ultimate goal—the deposing of Sindoor, the restoration of free magic use to the village of the Sorcerers. It was an alliance of convenience more than anything. Rimmel freely admitted that many within her ranks were suspicious of the Amazons, wary that the their old enemies would take advantage of divided Sorcerers to conquer them.

"If that is your fear, there's nothing we can say to put you wholly at ease," said Surma. "There are factions within our people who do wish revenge on the Sorcerers for the deaths of their kin, both in the past and recently. One can hope they will see reason, but even as a Speaker of the Council, I cannot guarantee it."

"You're a terrible negotiator," muttered Cologne.

"On the contrary, Teacher. I hope my frankness will convince Rimmel here of our sincerity."

The discussion at the main negotiating table went on unabated. The other rebels, five in number, milled about the restaurant and partook of Cologne's hospitality. Mousse served the guests with soup and meat buns while the two girls, Shampoo and Marula, sat together at a round table, watching the leaders' discussion unfold.

"So it is," said Marula, observing the negotiations with interest. "I'd heard the Third Speaker was completely honest and idealistic. She lives up to her reputation."

Save for the one time Cologne convinced her student to lie, ensuring the Amazons would march on the Sorcerer's Den, whatever the price. Nevertheless, with the red choker around her neck, Shampoo said nothing.

"You still won't speak?" Marula raised an eyebrow, puzzled. "The shame from returning home without your husband is that great?"

Shampoo eyed the younger girl, nodding once.

"They shouldn't judge you so harshly," said Marula. "Most girls turn twenty before they're sent out looking for strong men. It's unfair that you should be bound by law when you weren't prepared like anyone else would be."

It took boldness to speak out against the laws of the Tribe, and it was a thoroughly modern perspective to ignore another's failings and shame as easily as Marula did. Sensing a friendly viewpoint, Shampoo undid the choker of red quartz and laid it on the table. "I don't complain," she answered. "Making Ranma my husband is my task, and I bear it."

Marula smiled to herself. "I can see why. I met him, you know, inside the mountain at the spring ground. He's very strong, very powerful."

"Yes, he is." Shampoo beamed. "Our children would be so strong! And he can't stand anyone being better than him at anything, so you know if he didn't turn out good at love to begin with, he'd get better. He learns quickly."

The younger Amazon giggled, and Shampoo laughed with her, drawing momentary glances from the negotiating table.

From then on, the girls lowered their voices, keeping their conversation discreet. In Marula, Shampoo found not a rival but a kindred spirit. Though they'd studied under different masters, as young warriors of the Tribe they'd endured many of the same rituals and trials. Where Shampoo crossed the stream of a dozen stones in eight steps, Marula traversed the gap in seven but took an arrow to the shoulder for her trouble. These shared experiences helped the girls bond, but inevitably, Marula spoke of more recent trials—ones Shampoo had heard about but never cleared herself, having spent the last year largely abroad. When Marula assumed she knew the secret of the Trial of Fire, Shampoo crossed her eyes trying to think of how to safely walk over a bed of hot coals while fending off five assailants.

That was what Shampoo lost in chasing Ranma—a year of training that Cologne couldn't fully replicate away from the village. It was no matter, though. When she made Ranma her husband, she would have plenty of time to make up for missed trials.

"So you think you can convince him, then?" asked Marula. "Or defeat him?"

"Absolutely," said Shampoo.

"I don't see how. Sorcerers by themselves are weak—or at least, weaker than the Elders told us—but Ranma can fight well without magic. With it, how will you best him?"

"Who says it has to be in battle? And even if it is, Amazons beat Sorcerers before, no magic needed."

Marula frowned, sitting back. "As long as it doesn't get in the way of the Tribe's security."

"What do you mean?"

"We have Sorcerers to fight now. Being distracted with a man is no good for that."

"Ranma is first for me; everything else is second."

"What point is there in being allowed to come home if there's no home left to return to?"

"Pursuing my beloved won't destroy the village in the process."

"If you say so." Marula sipped a cup of tea. "My teacher would say that's a reckless attitude."

Shampoo grimaced. Who was this younger girl to tell her how to behave or think? Shampoo was experienced. Shampoo was a warrior. This girl in front of her got herself captured and humiliated with a curse ten times more foul than Shampoo's. "You always think what your teachers tell you to?"

"No, but I do think he's right. When the Elders offered me this chance, I was surprised. Teacher thought this would stay in your family if the Elders were pleased. That it hasn't means the Elders were afraid you or Speaker Cologne would put personal interests over the village's. That's the only reason someone else will be in the lead—someone like me."

The older girl made a fist under the table. "So, even though you'd speak to me, you still judge me and what I intend to do."

"I just don't understand," said Marula. "If someone like you with great skill chooses to spend her efforts on herself first instead of the village, I can't see any good coming of that. If you were to lose Ranma, no one in the village would respect you that way—not because you lost him, but because you put him first."

And someone else would make her name be forgotten—someone like this Marula, who described herself as a reluctant agent of the village's will. She couldn't understand Shampoo, as much common history they might've had. She'd never lost to a man and tried desperately to win him over. Someone like Marula, who prided herself on service to the Tribe, might deliberately lose to someone beneath her to get married quickly and get that duty out of her way. It wasn't unheard of. Someone truly ambitious within the Tribe wouldn't leave her husband to chance.

So Shampoo looked upon that friendly face—the only one she'd seen in ages—with scorn.

"I'm sorry," said Marula. "Did I say something wrong? I was only trying to help."

Shampoo's eyes flared with fury. She flipped the table, knocking Marula back in her chair. "I want no help from you! You pretend to be friendly, but you mock me with every word! I _will_ make Ranma mine, and no one like you will tell me to do it differently!" She kicked at Marula's side, landing a blow to the girl's ribs. "No one!"

Marula clutched a ball of her meteor hammer and chucked it, clocking Shampoo across the chin. The elder girl's ears rang, and she stumbled backward, searching for something to put her weight on. She steaded herself on a table at a booth, and to even the odds, she took a metal napkin holder, raising it overhead.

"Enough!" Cologne stepped between the girls, pounding her walking stick on the floor. "Shampoo, upstairs to your room. This is a negotiation, and you will not disrupt it over petty matters."

"But Great-grandmother—"

"Be silent!"

Rubbing her sore chin, Shampoo left the restaurant on the ground floor with Marula still nursing her side, a half-dozen Sorcerers watching in utter confusion, and Cologne's damning gaze on her with every step.

#

Dusk turned to night, and Shampoo shut herself in her room while the negotiations downstairs continued. Mousse gave up reaching her after knocking three separate times at her door. To pass the hours, she sat before the television and fought turtle-men by jumping atop their heads and throwing the empty shells as weapons of doom. It was diverting—this "Family Computer" system and its assortment of games—but it was also meaningless. The warbling sound and blocky graphics served only to blank her thoughts.

Alas, Shampoo had no chance to save the Mushroom Princess, when she reached the final stage, a voice at the door disrupted her play.

"Open up, child."

With one button press, the game froze, and Shampoo rolled over. She climbed to her feet and went to the door, and there she found Cologne, who waddled inside unopposed.

"You'll be happy to know that despite your temper with Marula, the rebels have seen fit to enter into an agreement with us," said Cologne. "It's but a tentative alliance, subject to mutual approval, but it's a start."

Shampoo shut the door. Even if the rebels would have nothing to do with the Tribe, Shampoo would follow Ranma's path. There was no question of that.

"And it was all I could do to convince Surma that you should still have a part in this. Aren't you going to thank me?"

Cologne threw the Choker of Silence at Shampoo's feet.

"Or will you go back to wearing that thing again? You left it downstairs, you know. You took it off to speak to her quietly? Or was it to scream at her instead?"

With her toes, Shampoo grasped the necklace and threw it upward. She caught it in her right hand and undid the clasp, wrapping it around her neck once more.

"I don't know what Marula said to you, and I don't care," said Cologne. "You must mind your temper, child. You must know restraint, or you will do yourself great disservice, pursuing something to the exclusion of all else."

"Like you did disservice to yourself?"

Cologne narrowed her eyes, saying nothing. She must've realized it—the contradiction, the hypocrisy of it. She started a war for her granddaughter, for Shampoo's aunt Ceruse, and everything that'd happened, even in recent times, was for that long-lost girl. Not for Ranma, though that was a plus. Not for Shampoo's honor. For Ceruse, Cologne had willingly deceived the Council and murdered Keema to keep the secret, and _she_ was lecturing Shampoo on restraint?

"Don't look at me like that," said Cologne. "Listen to me. You must learn from your elders."

Shampoo scoffed. "From their example? From _your_ example?"

A pained expression on her face, Cologne sighed. "Don't be a fool. What you should learn from are my mistakes. I ignored what Ceruse was telling me—the unhappiness on her face—and for that, I paid a heavy price. Had I not done my utmost to convince her to go through with the union, she would be with us, and the war never would've happened."

"Then, you stopped me from attacking Akane when she defended the Sorcerer, from freeing myself as Ranma walked away, because of that?"

Cologne's brow furrowed. "No good can come of attacking him or his heart directly, child. Perhaps before, when he was still uncertain and malleable, but that is not Ranma anymore. You should realize this."

And though it was convenient for Cologne's one and only goal not to anger Ranma, Shampoo should ignore this fact and focus solely on the wisdom her great-grandmother imparted upon her.

"It's too late for me to change my legacy, child," said Cologne. "It's not too late for you. Not yet."

Of all the wisdom Cologne tried to give her that night, that was the piece that rang truest.

The rebel Sorcerers retreated to their encampment, and Elder Surma and Marula stayed the night at the Cat Café, but while others slept peacefully, Shampoo lay awake, pondering Cologne's words. She was right about another thing, too: Ranma had grown bolder, more determined and deliberate, and he was much less shy about showing feelings. She saw it two days before—it was _Ranma_, not Akane, who had the idea to go on a morning date together. That much was clear even from a distance, the great distance that separated Ranma from Shampoo as she watched from her bicycle in those early Monday hours.

Cologne had advised her to be restrained and patient, but what she really meant was something more profound—Shampoo had to be willing to fail, to let her goal go unfulfilled, to not stake all her value and worth on the pursuit of Ranma, or else she _would_ repeat the mistakes her great-grandmother had made.

Be willing to fail? No warrior was taught to do that, to accept defeat. No doubt that was what had driven Cologne before, and truly, she'd paid a high price. To resign the post of Second Speaker was a long fall indeed. To use a friend to cover up a crime was a ruthless and driven act, one Shampoo hadn't questioned, but clearly Cologne had. Few matriarchs in the Tribe would admit such regrets—regrets she wished desperately Shampoo wouldn't make her own. There was only one way to be sure of that.

Could there really be a life for her without Ranma?

On the face of it, there were possibilities. Some members of the Tribe lived permanently away from the village, wandering because they'd failed to bring their husbands home or as envoys to the People's Republic, bringing ancient arts to their grand army. Regardless of her path, if she stayed away from the village, no one from the Tribe would take her as a wife. No one but Mousse, and she convulsed at the thought of his touch. What possessed him to show her undying loyalty she'd never understood. As for the idea of marrying a stranger, or not having a family at all…

Why would she want to contemplate those possibilities when Ranma was nearby, when thinking of his strength, his muscles, only fueled her sleeplessness? Frustrating it was, yes, but at least it made her feel something. Spending the rest of her life among strangers, lying with a man a fraction as strong as Ranma, made her feel nothing at all.

To sort out her confused thoughts, Shampoo left the Cat Café, twin chúi strapped to her back. Her mind may have been muddled, but her path was clear. Despite the dark of night and the signs with symbols that were gibberish to her, she made a beeline to the Tendō home, parking her bike by the main gate. Many a time she'd plowed straight through the walls of the house, but that night, she decided to be more subtle and covert. She didn't need to see Ranma. She knew his face and image well enough.

Instead, she scaled the walls to the second-floor balcony, the one screened from the interior by a sliding glass door. Inside, a girl slept peacefully under the covers of her bed. Darkness washed out the colors of her nightgown and sheets, but Shampoo paid them no heed anyway. Akane was the important one. If she lost Ranma, it would be to Akane, to her more likely than anyone else. Why did he favor her so?

"_You were never willing to accept _no _for an answer."_

Shampoo felt dizzy on her feet. She grabbed the balcony railing for support. How could she have forgotten? Ranma had told her the same thing as Cologne, just in a different way, and if that was the reason he wouldn't have her…?

No, no, it wasn't true! It was impossible! Akane was no better than her. Akane wanted him just as much as she did. She just had a different way of going about it. She pretended. She was insecure. If Ranma had chosen someone else, she would be livid. She'd abuse and torment him even as she'd yell repeatedly that she didn't want him. It'd all be a lie, a game. It was the way Akane manipulated Ranma. They were no different from each other, so why should Shampoo be content to surrender?

Why shouldn't she break through that glass door and bash in Akane's skull? She'd tried before. That day, less than a month before, Akane had acted like she was so superior. She rubbed Shampoo's nose in the dirt. She thought she could bathe in Ranma's love and let that wash away her need. Let there be no mistaking it: Akane needed him just as much as Shampoo did. Their needs were incompatible. Only one could be satisfied, not both.

So Shampoo could murder Akane. She could murder the Tendō girl in her own bed, and that much, Ranma—the new Ranma—would never forgive. Slights against himself he seldom punished. Slights against Akane he would pay back ten times over. He'd hunt down Shampoo and kill her, just as he promised, and though he'd have only hate for Shampoo in his heart, that would be better than his indifference, his apathy.

As long as he didn't forget her. As long as he couldn't make her nothing, like the dead warriors who'd become ash and disappeared on the wind.

The balcony door was unlocked, and with the tip of her finger, Shampoo silently slid it half-open. There was no breeze, and only the occasional sound of tires on the road disturbed the night. Shampoo removed the straps that held her weapons to her back and gripped the handles of the two chúi. She tip-toed over the threshold, for like her great-grandmother, she would accept neither failure nor defeat.

Creak.

Mumbling to herself, Akane stirred, rolling over in bed. Shampoo's helpless prey raised no defenses, and that incensed Shampoo all the more. Akane thought herself so secure, so safe in Ranma's embrace that she neglected to be watchful, to protect herself. For that, Shampoo would punish her. No one else should be happy with Ranma, and Shampoo would gladly accept his wrath, if only to keep from enduring the painful thought of him finding pleasure in another woman's flesh. Shampoo stepped closer, towering over Akane in her bed. The first strike should be swift and brutal. Never give your prey a chance to fight back if you can help it. That was true when hunting at the outskirts of the village, and it was true then, at that moment, as she raised a bulbous mace overhead to strike. It was for the best, really. This way, she wouldn't have to struggle with the slow, throbbing pain of losing Ranma. When Ranma inevitably came after her, it would be quick.

And it wouldn't change that she'd been defeated—nay, that she's _accepted_ defeat and done her most to mitigate the loss.

All she had to do was accept that she'd lost.

She lowered the head of the chúi and stared at it, at her subdued reflection in the sheen of the metal. The bruise on her chin marred her complexion. Her hair, disheveled from sleep, was unkempt. Defeat was all over her face, yet that image only emboldened her. Why should she surrender? Why should she listen to an old woman who refused to heed her own advice? And Ranma? He was wrong. He was wrong about Akane and what her motives were.

Killing Akane would be the ultimate concession, the final admission of Shampoo's defeat. It was a coward's move, meant only to allay her fears, and she did fear. She feared Ranma would continue down this deluded path toward falling in love with Akane, but she wouldn't let that dominate her. All she had to do was show him who Akane really was—petty, insecure, and weak—and he would see. He'd have to, or he'd be a fool. Even then, he'd still be worthy of her, for Shampoo could imagine no one else to take his place.

She shut the glass door and descended the exterior wall as quietly as she'd come. At least something had come to Japan and disrupted the monotony of her existence, the boredom of counting cans and sacks in the Cat Café's storeroom. In hindsight, she considered that might've been the last moment of peace she'd see for some time. Her good standing in the Tribe and Ranma's love were distant to her, waiting to be reclaimed, and though she'd long thought both tasks easy, for the first time in weeks she admitted to herself something crucial:

She was afraid. She felt fear.

Fear was the only thing that could take her to Akane's bed and come within an arm's length of killing her. Warriors should understand their fears and never turn away from them, lest they find themselves slain in battle for their ignorance. She did fear for her future—that much she couldn't hide any longer—and for that, as she stopped at an intersection, waiting for a signal to change, she looked over her shoulder toward the Tendō home.

_Whatever I do, I do for you, Ranma, my _airen—_most beloved and dear to me. Am I not beautiful to you? Am I not strong? Tell me what I must do to please you, and I'll do it until you will me to stop. Is my love not enough for the both of us? Are you so without mercy that you'd make me live in shame?_

She shivered in the cold night air, feeling no warmth from the thought of him for a change, yet as she turned to cross the boulevard, a flash caught her eye. The night was overcast, and the clouds smeared out the light of the moon into a broad glow, but the flashes were distinct and discrete. Lightning sparked among the clouds over the Tendō home. Bolts arced back and forth there…and only there.

Like the lightning that drew the rebels to meet Ranma, except nothing good would take place in the dead of night. Shampoo pedaled into the intersection and turned back the way she came. Steering with one hand for a moment, she retrieved a mace with the other and sped back to the walled-off residence. Sure enough, on the nearby rooftops, she spotted the shadows of Sorcerers in the moonlight, and her heartbeat quickened. In Ranma's defense, she would show her true strength, and no failure to win him would erase the glory she earned on the battlefield, in service of the Tribe.

For that, she hit the brakes, and the bicycle tires screeched to a halt on the sidewalk in front of the main gate. Drawing her second mace, she leapt off the bicycle, ready to meet the Sorcerers with all her might.

* * *

**Next:** The evidence of Ryōga's father and his travels lies in the Tendō home, and the Sorcerers will not yield until they take it or destroy it. **Coming June 22, 2012: The conclusion to "No Place of Sanctuary" - "Divergence"**

For notes and commentary on this chapter and others, check out my blog at westofarcturus [dot] blogspot [dot] com


	54. Sanctuary V: Divergence

_**Identity**_**, by Muphrid.** A tribe of Chinese sorcerers captures Ranma to purge emotions from the hearts of men. A continuation story, set after the end of the manga.

**What's going on here?** The Sorcerers have come to Nerima, their presence shattering the fragile respite Ranma and his companions once knew. In dead of night, Shampoo has surprised the Sorcerers outside the Tendō home, and a battle for Hibiki's effects begins.

* * *

**Divergence**

_Chapter Eight Finale_

During the last year with Ranma as a guest in the Tendō home, he and Akane had fought over a vast array of issues and slights. They competed in cooking when Ranma insisted on watching over kitchen, lest Akane, in her haste and enthusiasm, damage it beyond repair. When Akane grew incredibly strong thanks to an empowering bowl of soup, she outright disbelieved Ranma when he came after her, trying to nullify the powerup before certain hairy side-effects kicked in. Their three-way badminton match went well beyond the court and was talked about for weeks.

Nevertheless, despite the breadth of flimsy justifications that had fueled their spats before, never had they, to either's recollection, fought over a simple cardboard box.

"It's simple," said Ranma, placing the box of Hibiki family souvenirs onto his futon with a _thud_. "Ryōga and I will do some figuring, look through everything else here, get some books to identify the really weird stuff, and we'll see if we can guess where Ryōga's old man might be headed to next. You know, if that means anything about where he'll actually be, anyway."

"And three heads are better than two," said Akane, arguing with Ranma from the hallway. "Or better yet, Kohl-kun might be able to help understand what Ryōga-kun's father would be trying to do."

"Is that so." Ranma peered outside, finding the Sorcerer captain to be near. "Hey, Wuya, you can read Japanese?"

"No," said Kohl.

Ranma shot a look Akane's way. "Then I doubt she's going to be much help, huh."

"Don't dismiss me out of hand, Outsider." Kohl stepped forward to Akane's side. "I've met the man. I know how he thinks. I need access to that box."

"Well, you ain't getting any!" cried Ranma. "The only ones going in this room are me and Ryōga, and it's going to stay that way until after dark, got it?"

Akane fumed. "But Ranma—"

"Why not let them be?" Sipping from a juice box, Nabiki passed by, weaving through the maze of bodies. "If Ranma-kun and Ryōga-kun are happy spending so much time together alone in the same room, why not let them be? Or take photos. That could be profitable, yes?"

Akane made a face. "Sister, that is _not_ helping."

"It helps me just fine thinking about it."

Looking out from the Saotome guest room, Hibiki Ryōga backed away a step, giving Ranma more than enough personal space. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Akane-san helped again," he argued. "We spent so much time on Father's journals—we're basically starting from scratch here. We could use the help; There's no reason to make her upset."

"When the Sorcerers come back," said Ranma, "and you know they'll come back, they'll go after anyone who had anything to do with trying to solve this puzzle. You know what they did to your house."

"They didn't bother trying to hurt me specifically, if that's what you mean."

"Ryōga-kun's right," said Akane. "If they come back, how are they going to know who looked through the box, anyway? How they going to know it's here?"

Kohl grimaced.

Rubbing his forehead, Ranma muttered to himself incoherently. "Everybody, get out of here for a second. Give us the room."

Shooting Ranma a wary look, Ryōga departed, and Kohl shuffled off down the hallway. Akane stepped inside the guest room, shutting the door behind her. None of this argument had made any sense to her. Trying to get something reasonable out of Ranma could be like pulling teeth if he were stubborn enough about the issue. Nevertheless, he did invite her inside to talk. For that, she was hopeful, if also still sensitive about the matter. "Well?" she began. "What is it you have to say?"

Ranma turned away, pacing. "This is nothing Ryōga and I can't handle. You know that. Go up to your room; work on school or something. You don't need to be down here."

"I want to be. I want to feel like I'm doing _something_ important instead of sitting around helplessly, watching from the outside!"

"I know that! You don't think I know that? But what I need is to protect what's important to me. You understand that, don't you?"

Akane's gaze softened. At last, there'd been a break. He'd told her something meaningful, something she could understand, but it was also something she already knew. Never once did she doubt that Ranma hoped to protect her, but this level of caution—this paranoia—was totally unjustified. "No matter what happened earlier, it's just a little box, Ranma. Nothing bad will happen for me looking through it."

He shook his head, pacing faster. "I can't take that chance."

"Why not? You're being unreasonable!"

"I know that, too! That's why you shouldn't be here. In times like this, I can't think clearly when you're around, and I need to be at my best and in control. Go upstairs, Akane. Please."

He didn't want her there. He couldn't have her there. And though Akane understood, thinking that in the past, Ranma wouldn't have bothered to explain himself at all, leading to an even bigger argument. That didn't mean she knew how to respond. "I see," she said weakly, and she opened the door in a daze. Ranma called Ryōga inside, and Akane wandered upstairs without another word.

Truly, it was progress, wasn't it? Ranma talked to her, and she understood. At times, his presence and scrutinizing gaze had compelled her to do irrational things, too, but that didn't change the gulf that occupied the space between them. What Ranma felt, he felt keenly, too keenly to dismiss on his own. Though now and again the two of them had grown closer, fear and anxiety had driven them apart more times than Akane could count, and even after saving each other's lives, little had changed. They were still the same awkward, uncertain teenagers.

Akane pondered these failings for the rest of the afternoon and went to bed wondering if she and Ranma could ever overcome their hesitations at all. If only she could assure Ranma nothing ill would happen for her being there, perhaps then he would overcome his anxieties. Akane didn't know _how_ to say that, how best to get through to him, but she believed it with all her heart.

#

CRASH!

The shattering of glass roused Akane from her slumber. Night had long since fallen over the Tendō home, but faint flashes of airborne lightning lit up the ground. Akane kicked off her covers, awake and alert, but aside from the slow, strobe-like pattern outside, she could see nothing wrong.

"Ranma!" came a muffled cry.

Boom, boom!

_Shampoo?_ Putting on her slippers, Akane trotted out of her room. She flipped on the hallway light and headed downstairs to the thuds and snaps of metal fighting wood. She made for the kitchen, hoping to peer through the window there.

She found a bicycle with both wheels sticking through the frame instead.

BOOM! Fragments of asphalt showered over the compound walls, lit intermittently from the electrical arcs in the sky.

_Sorcerers—they're here!_ She darted to the kitchen door, cupping her hands around her mouth. "Ranma! Father! Everyone, wake up; there's trouble! Wake up!"

"YAAH!" Shampoo's cream pierced the night, and Akane knew she could hesitate no longer. She kicked off her slippers and ran out the front door. Her eyes scanned the darkness, adjusting to the lack of light once again. The main gate was still shut, and not wishing to open it for enemies, she jumped instead, catching the ledge of the compound wall with her fingertips. She pulled herself over, and there she glimpsed the situation at hand:

Shampoo was alone. As Sorcerers shot fireballs and ice spikes at their single foe, Shampoo wove between her enemies, using their bodies as protection and cover. Though she was nimble, Shampoo's movements lacked some fluidity and prowess, for she nursed a wound, favoring her left side. Akane couldn't see how Shampoo was injured, but it was enough to take half of the Amazon's arsenal out of battle—she used her left hand and mace defensively, and even then, only when she needed to.

Akane rushed in. Shampoo needed the help, outnumbered at least six to one as far as Akane could see. The other Sorcerers were content to stand back and snipe at Shampoo from a distance, getting clear shots whenever her hand-to-hand target backed off a step or two. Akane ran along the compound wall and leapt into the first clump of Sorcerers she could find.

Step, step, WHAM! Her foot caught a Sorcerer in the back, propelling him forward to skid along the pavement. An engagement against multiple foes? Akane was surely used to that. It had been many months since she'd had to contend against dozens of boys just to get to class, but the sum of those experiences came back to her readily. It wasn't about focusing on one foe. Once she put in a hit on an enemy, she had to check the others and decide whether to attack or retreat. When outnumbered, your foes are aggressive more often than not. Because they constantly press the attack, you can use their overconfidence against them. Against a single opponent, the need to balance offense and defense is greater, and your foe tends to be more cautious and guarded. Perhaps that's what put Akane at a disadvantage whenever she sparred with Ranma. Accustomed to opponents who always attacked first and defended second, she wasn't used to finding herself the aggressor instead, and for that, Ranma cut her to pieces every time.

But standing toe-to-toe with three Sorcerers wasn't anything like fighting off the horde of boys in the schoolyard. More Sorcerers stood on adjacent rooftops, shooting lightning and spawning patches of ice on the ground, making the street increasingly hazardous and slick. In her socks and pajamas, Akane wasn't in her best fighting clothes, either. A loose sleeve was easy for an enemy Sorcerer to grab on to and use to hurl her headlong into the compound wall.

THUD!

Her ears rang. She collapsed at the base of the wall and cradled her head, groaning. Without a doubt, all this trauma to the head wasn't good for her memory.

There was a crinkling sound. Sorcerers gathered around her, one in the lead forming snowflakes at his fingertips—the preparation for a kill shot, just as Ranma was wont to do.

"Wait!"

The crinkling ceased. The Sorcerers looked to the voice, and another magic-wielder in black appeared. She was tall and attractive, with small eyes and dark hair in a ponytail behind her. She looked upon Akane with a penetrating gaze and a sly smirk.

"The Sieve's favorite cannot be killed," she said, in Japanese so both her men and Akane would understand. "Not yet."

CRUNCH! The metal sphere of Shampoo's chúi pounded a Sorcerer's ribs. "Akane, you no should be here!" she cried. "Shampoo need no help!"

Shampoo talked tough, but Akane saw clearly the damage she'd incurred. The left side of Shampoo's pajama shirt was charred and tattered, and that didn't even begin to cover the burns underneath. As much as the proud Amazon wouldn't admit it, her movements were becoming increasingly labored and weakened. There was no telling how long she'd been there, fighting off the Sorcerers, but she'd done her part. For that effort, it was only fair that Akane pay her back in kind.

Akane scrambled to her feet, throwing herself to the defense of Shampoo's vulnerable side. If Shampoo questioned this deed or felt unsafe with Akane by her back, she didn't argue. They only needed to hold out for a short time—for seconds, really, against deafening percussive blasts of wind and the thundering smashes of magic-imbued battle staves. All they had to do was survive until Akane's alarm traveled through the whole of the house and reinforcements came.

Shink! From atop the compound wall, a column of ice shot through a Sorcerer's gut and stuck in the ground, leaving the victim to stand dead on his feet. Akane and Shampoo looked up, knowing who they'd find there.

"Ranma!" they cried.

Though ill-dressed for the cold night, not even an icy northern breeze could make Ranma flinch in his muscle shirt and boxers. Late to the party, Ryōga joined him on the wall, dressed in more appropriate attire and spinning a razor-sharp bandana in one hand, ready to fling it at the first Sorcerer to cross him. Finally, the defector Kohl, in the body of the former captain, stood beside Ranma with his staff upright and at ease, but no less prepared to strike.

"You know," said Ranma, "you bastards have terrible timing. Here I was, having a peaceful dream about pastel-colored teenage ponies living an idyllic existence in Horselandia thanks to the power of friendship. And now you guys make a fuss and wake me up for this bullshit?"

All eyes turned to Ranma in a mix of amused and puzzled expressions.

"What? It's okay to like ponies! It—all right, forget it. You there, with the beachball boobs and the ponytail. You're the one giving orders. I take it you're the new captain?"

Akane twitched. "The first thing you notice about her is her chest?"

"It's true, isn't it?" Ranma jerked a thumb at Kohl. "Besides, Wuya's taken the title of Flatty Queen of the Flat People now."

Kohl buried his face in his palm.

"The Sieve is correct," said the girl with the ponytail. "I am Liesun, Captain of the Guard, and the Lady has bestowed upon me the power to—"

A line of frost shimmered in the moonlight, from Ranma's fingers to the new captain's heart.

THWA-PAM! A pressure wave shattered the ice spike in mid-air and scattered Akane, Shampoo, and the new captain's comrades around her.

"You attack me in the middle of a sentence?" cried Captain Liesun.

"Well, yeah," said Ranma. "The only thing more annoying than you guys being here is the way you Sorcerers talk, talk, and talk. I'm not interested in your babbling. You want something, don't you?"

"Hibiki's effects," said Liesun. She gripped her staff tightly. "But I expect the Sieve will fight and live up to his reputation."

"Nope, you can have them!"

Kohl looked at Ranma like he'd turned into a tentacle monster.

"See? Here you go." Ranma jumped down, hidden on the interior of the compound, and leapt back to the top of the wall, a heavy cardboard box in hand, the flaps sealed in duct tape. "Catch!"

He tossed the box upward, on a lazy parabolic arc, and Liesun caught it with both hands.

"Now, scram!" THWAP-THWAP! Ranma showered the Sorcerers in a volley of ice spikes, and the dumbfounded new captain, clearly at a loss in this situation, ordered a her men to retreat. The Sorcerers pulled back, fleeing down side streets and over rooftops, until not a battle staff could be seen, save for Kohl's.

Akane dusted herself off, her pulse slowing as the rush of adrenaline faded. It didn't make sense. One minute, they were fighting, and the next, Ranma had given the Sorcerers everything they wanted? Like it was a joke, a game? He wouldn't betray Ryōga's father so easily, would he?

No, absolutely not. Akane didn't have to think about that any harder to understand. Ranma's intense stare, following the Sorcerers as they fled, told her so. He had a plan.

"Inside," Ranma commanded those who remained. "Everybody, right now."

Despite a twitch as Akane wrapped around her, Shampoo accepted support as she hobbled through the Tendō family gate. The exterior lights revealed the full extent of Shampoo's injuries—a mild, pink, grazing burn, but it was sore and sensitive to the touch. The whole household had awakened, and the bright lights of the kitchen were painful to bear. With a draft pouring through the broken window, Kasumi ran the sink, dousing a rag in cold water, but Shampoo would have none of it. "No water," she said.

Plastic bags of ice it was, then, and Kasumi bound the pack in place with masking tape.

"That'll have to do," said Ranma. "It's not going to hold in a fight, but there's no other way about it. How's it feel, Shampoo? Not too bad?"

Shampoo shook her head, beaming.

"Good, so now you can explain what you were doing here?"

The Amazon looked at him like a deer standing cluelessly in the middle of a street. "Uh…."

"Outsider!" Kohl interrupted, taking hold of Ranma's arm. "Explain yourself. You're not so arrogant and foolish to give your enemies what they want without a fight."

"Glad to see you're recognizing my greatness," said Ranma. "And don't you mean _our_ enemies?"

Kohl narrowed his eyes.

"Fine, whatever. Ryōga, get the stuff from my room—ah, actually, Akane, make sure he doesn't get lost. This ain't over yet; Beachballs and goons will be back."

#

Though Akane twitched a little bit to think Ranma might start referring to the new captain as _Beachballs_ for good, much more profound thoughts occupied most of her attention. When she and Ryōga ventured into the Saotome guest room once more, she saw the truth of things. All over the floor there was junk—a miniature, wood-carved boat; a piece of stone jewelry, probably something Ainu in origin; a flyer for a dojo in Nagoya. Akane recognized some of the pieces—they were the contents of the box Ryōga's father had sent back home.

"Ranma saw it coming," said Ryōga, rounding up the souvenirs. "He thought the Sorcerers would be back, sooner rather than later. He had a bag full of worthless papers and photos and quickly stuffed it into Father's box. If the Sorcerers don't even look inside and just decide to burn it instead, they may never even know. Ranma didn't think they'd be that stupid, though. More likely than not, they'll be back here."

That was Ranma all right; it was too fitting that he would have some kind of deception up his sleeve to maintain the advantage. If Ranma wanted something badly enough, he wouldn't balk at a little trickery or subterfuge. He was clever. He made up new tricks his opponents didn't expect on the fly. And if he hadn't, Akane could imagine the alternative: being forced to defend her home and her family with nothing but her own fists, and in pajamas at that. Ranma knew better. He knew that they could buy a little time if he just scared off the Sorcerers with a simple maneuver.

It was an expression of his control—just as Ranma had said.

Perhaps stability and the capacity to guide a situation meant more to Ranma than he'd ever let on. Her presence affected him, and in ways he wanted to avoid. That much was clear, and while she'd found it frustrating and difficult to understand, seeing Ranma's process in action granted Akane new insight. As much as she might resent it when Ranma treated her like a glass vase to cushion and protect, it was better not to push him on it, not when Sorcerers had stood just meters outside her family's front gate.

If only she could keep herself contained, reasonable and logical, she could keep herself from reacting badly to an ill-posed suggestion, then it wouldn't be difficult.

An easy thing to say with foresight. Akane knew it was much more difficult in practice.

Akane and Ryōga gathered the souvenirs in a backpack and joined the group by the dinner table in the main room. The rest of the Tendō and Saotome families had snuck out by mutual agreement. Ranma had suggested Ukyō's restaurant as a safe haven, somewhere no Sorcerer had been, present company included. Abandoning the estate was the only reasonable play, for the Sorcerers would return in force once they realized they'd been had, and sending two not-particularly-heroic old men to protect their wives or daughters was the most agreeable solution, just in case Captain Liesun had eyes on the house already.

"She's not that cautious," said Kohl. "I've known Liesun for six years. Though she is far from stupid, she prefers direct maneuvers and tactics. Her preference for manipulating the winds gives her special control over the weather, but she lacks the raw power that someone who wields fire, ice, or lightning. To her, magic is a tool to supplement her physical prowess with the staff. She likes to be up-close, and so when she returns, she won't bother with skirmishing outside the walls. She'll bring overwhelming force if she can spare it."

"Glad you could share that and make yourself useful," said Ranma. "Now, maybe you can tell me why there was a crazy light show above this house to show all your Sorcerer friends the way down the yellow-brick road?"

Kohl raised an eyebrow. "I had nothing to do with it."

"Oh, no?" A spike of ice formed in Ranma's hand, and he shoved Kohl to the wall, holding the spike like a dagger to the defector's neck. "You want to try that again, old buddy, old pal? Because you know, that didn't sound very convincing. It almost sounded like you were lying to me, like you were trying to tell a joke, except you've never been funny, Wuya! That's your biggest problem, get me? You have zero sense of humor, so I know—I _know_—that you didn't lead Sindoor's goons here as a joke, and even if you had, I don't like the idea of people who like to blow things up, or bury them in them in the ground or turn them to ash, on my doorstep! Explain it to me. Now!"

With his pinky finger, Kohl nudged the point of the spike away from his neck, ignoring the superficial cut Ranma had made and the slow seeping of blood from the wound. "I had nothing to do with it," he insisted. "I don't know how they found you. If one of Rimmel's men betrayed us, betrayed her, they could've followed you back here and pointed the way. That's the only explanation I can think of. If they searched blindly through the flows of ki, I don't know that they could've found you."

Ranma squinted, studying Kohl. What either of them were thinking Akane couldn't say, but Ranma shoved Kohl into the wall once more and held the spike raised, trembling with the strength he channeled into his arm. Kohl, for his part, neither flinched nor looked away. He looked Ranma in the eye, paying no heed to the spike or where it might land, how it would slice through his body if Ranma decided to attack. Akane averted her gaze, not wanting to see the carnage if Ranma deemed Kohl a liar. She knew he could be vicious and merciless. It seldom came out, but when they'd fought Kohl and Tilaka in Saffron's bedchambers, Ranma held nothing back. It was about more than their safety, their freedom. It was for revenge. It was payback, and if Kohl had betrayed them here, Ranma would have much to pay him back for.

"Heh." Ranma laughed to himself, smirking, and cast the spike aside. "You've got balls, Wuya; I'll give you that, and we don't have enough people to be doing this right now. Here's what we're doing—the old ghoul is coming over with Mousse and the rope-maker. Apparently, they've been meeting to try to form an alliance or whatever. Shampoo, Wuya, and I will stay here, and we'll meet Loose Chest or whatever her name was when she comes back looking for what was inside the box. Ryōga, take Akane to Ucchan's—yeah, I know you'll have to actually show the way, Akane, but you know what I mean. Take that pack of supplies with you; okonomiyaki's great, but you probably don't want to be eating that and that alone until it's safe. Do you understand me?"

Akane fingered the strap of the backpack, meeting Ranma's gaze. He knew full well what was inside, and it wasn't supplies. Perhaps he was still suspicious of Kohl, but looking at Shampoo, it was clear she didn't realize the significance of what Ranma's said, either. She was all too happy to be at his side to care, and though Akane resented that, she reminded herself of the truth:

Ranma wanted her to get out with the treasure the Sorcerers were after. Though he wouldn't say it aloud, he'd entrusted that duty to her. It would take her out of the action, yes, but it was a critical task. He hadn't asked Ryōga to carry the load. He saw it on Akane's back and approved.

"All right, come on," he said, clapping his hands. "Let's go already. Wuya, Shampoo, let's see what we can do to board up the doors and windows. Better not to give those guys any chance of seeing inside if we can help it…."

Ryōga leaned over Akane's shoulder, whispering in her ear. "We should go quickly, before anyone else realizes what you have there, Akane-san."

Akane nodded, understanding, and made for the exit at the front of the house. Before she left the dining room, however, she stopped and looked back. "Ranma? Thanks."

Checking the seal on the double sliding doors as the closed, Ranma nodded absentmindedly. "I ain't done nothing. Go on; get out of here. Be with your family."

It was a small sentiment, and given how he wouldn't look at her as he said it, some might mistake it as no sentiment at all, but Akane didn't see it that way. She could choose to believe it meant nothing, sure. Instead, she felt it was the most Ranma thought he could say while still focusing on the task at hand. In that view, it meant more than he could reasonably express. Perhaps no one but Ranma could know for sure what he meant, but regardless of the true meaning, Akane took strength from it as she and Ryōga went out the door.

In darkness, the two of them set out—Akane leading Ryōga by the hand with little more than the glow of streetlamps to guide them. The clouds above rolled and thickened, blocking out more and more of the moon's light. It was no great bother, however. Akane knew the way to Ukyō's restaurant well enough. The route was no problem, but staying out of sight was Akane's concern. Especially as they left the Tendō home, Akane shied away from bright lights and tried to hide when the occasional car passed by, headlights blazing. Who knew where the Sorcerers were or if they'd spot her in transit and follow her or attack on sight. Ranma was sure they'd come back. Ryōga felt the same. But how _did_ they know where to look for Ranma? Or how to find Ryōga's home? Could it be Kohl had betrayed them after all?

"Ranma might be too suspicious," said Ryōga. "Wuya doesn't know where I live, yet the Sorcerers were there. They could be homing in on something Father sent me, some powerful object or the like. Ranma has to know that there are too many ways this could've happened, that he can't pin it all on Wuya and wrap it in a bow. He has to know that. Why else would he let her live if he didn't think so?"

Ranma had his own reasons for the way he did things, and while Akane embraced this assignment from him, she knew she'd only begun to really find some insight into him. There was a vast part of his mindset and thinking she still found mysterious, but that was something she could learn to follow when all this mess was over.

At last, Ryōga and Akane approached the restaurant, confident that they hadn't been followed. The door to Ucchan's had been left a hair open, and it was Ryōga who peered inside first, cautiously.

A flash! A sudden light bathed the inside of the restaurant, and Ryōga recoiled, covering his eyes.

"Are you mad?" cried Kuonji Ukyō, one hand on the light switch and the other on a pair of throwing spatulas. "Knock first next time! We could've killed you!"

Ryōga narrowed his eyes.

"Well, maybe not _killed_ you, seeing how you're halfway to indestructible." Ukyō beckoned the two inside and to shut the door behind them. Beside her, the other defenders of the restaurant relaxed. Saotome Genma sat back down on a stool, rubbing his eyes. Sōun Tendō come forth to hug his daughter, going on about her bravery and fawning over every little scratch and cut she'd earned.

And a gruff, bearded man presided over the lot of them with a stern stare.

"Ah, Ryōga, Akane-chan, you haven't met my father yet, have you?" asked Ukyō.

Akane winced. "Ah, your father…."

"Yes, that's right," said Kuonji. "The one who promised his daughter to Saotome Ranma, in agreement with this fraud!" He smacked Genma on the back of the head with a cooking spatula. "I never should've listened to you!"

"It's not my fault!" Genma claimed. "I gave Ranma the fair choice; it's not my fault five-year-old boys like food more than girls!"

"Why you—"

"All right, all right," said Ukyō, separating the men with the blade of her battle spatula. "Let's worry about the batter—I mean, the _matter_ at hand. Akane-chan, your sisters are upstairs with Konatsu to watch over them. Ranchan said on the phone that you had something important with you?"

Slinging the backpack off her shoulder, Akane set the pack on an empty stool

and opened it, showing the contents to all involved. "The souvenirs Ryōga-kun's father sent back, along with papers from when Ranma and Ryōga-kun were trying to figure out where everything came from and when. The Sorcerers think Ranma still has these knick-knacks with him at our house, so they'll be going back there to find them. That's why _I_ have to go back to help, too."

"What?" cried Sōun. "My little girl, you can't!"

"It's what I'm doing, and that's that!" she roared. "None of you are Ranma; you can't tell me to do anything else. Now, who's with me?"

Ryōga stepped forward. "I'm always at your side, Akane-san," he said, bowing.

"If Ranchan needs the help, I'm not going to deny him," said Ukyō.

Kuonji shook his head. "My daughter, you don't need to do this. It's bad enough we've been roped into giving shelter without even being asked for it. That boy's affairs are nothing you have to involve yourself in."

"Oh!" cried Sōun. "So you don't want your daughter to marry Ranma-kun after all?"

With a death glare, Kuonji scowled. Sōun bolted beneath the counter with a yelp.

"Even if Ranchan had nothing to do with it, these Sorcerers are bad, bad guys," said Ukyō. "Giving them free reign to do as they please in this country, in this town, isn't good for business. It isn't good for anybody."

Sōun nudged the stool on which Genma sat. "Well, Saotome-kun? Will you go to defend your son and _my_ future son-in-law this time? Or would you prefer to sit here and eat?"

"Someone has to stay with the girls," said Genma. "Besides, it's _your_ daughter who's going, and you're an upstanding member of the community. I'm just staying at your place."

"For a year!"

"Ahem." Kuonji cleared his throat. "If both of you are intent on staying here, I do not mind cooking a few meals to pass the time."

Ukyō gaped. "Father!"

"Of course," he continued, "as the chef, I have total control over the ingredients, and given the late hour, I may forget to exclude some items with particularly nasty side-effects. Vomiting, diarrhea, indigestion, cold sweats—it's really amazing how easy it is to disrupt the gastrointestinal tract. Of course, I'm a good host. It's not like I have a grudge to either of you. Isn't that right, gentlemen?"

Sōun and Genma glanced at one another. "On second thought," said Genma, "perhaps a bit of a light workout would be good at this time of night."

Nodding, Sōun agreed. "That's right! I've always wanted to fight off an enemy horde before breakfast!"

The two fathers laughed together, looking as sick and unhappy with the decision as could be.

"Then we're off," said Akane, leading from the door. "Let's hurry!"

The others nodded in agreement, and the journey back to the Tendō home began.

_I know this isn't what you want, Ranma,_ thought Akane. _You probably meant for me to stay at Ukyō's restaurant and sit this one out, but that's your problem. You think—you insist—that you can do everything alone, that you can spare others from getting hurt if it means enough to you. You might be right, but it means you shoulder all the burden, all the risk. I choose to be here, Ranma, so you don't have to do that, and if you think I alone can't make that much of a difference, that's fine._

She looked to the others, who walked in step with her.

_This time, it's not just me, and maybe, after this is all over, we can talk without barriers or divisions between us._

That hope Akane held in her heart, but with the growing cloud cover as they ventured back to the Tendō home, it grew a little fainter with each passing step.

#

From the roof of the Tendō home, Ranma saw it too—the darkening of the sky as the clouds thickened. This would not be clean and pleasant business. It would be messy. Those willing to fight had to be prepared to shower in blood and dirt, and for that, he was more than ready. With the house emptied but for him, the defector Kohl, and Shampoo, he had no misgivings about the battle to come.

Perched on the rooftop, sitting with his legs over the side, he looked out, watching and waiting. His mother, Akane, and her family were safe, and that was the most important thing. In that, Ryōga had proved surprisingly cooperative. He'd objected at first to Ranma's plot, but he too wanted to see Akane safe. Giving her a meaningful task, one worthy of her attention and care, appeased Ryōga's concerns, and indeed, it was a moving sight to see Akane so grateful, even as she was being sent away.

No matter. It was for the best that she was gone. He could devote his mind solely to the questions of the battle at hand. Would the Sorcerers approach from one direction and concentrate their forces, or would they prefer to surround the compound and attack from all sides? When they realized only the three of them were still present, would they send in overwhelming numbers to finish the job, or would they prefer a distant attack from safety outside? For all his doubts about Kohl, Ranma had to heed the traitor's advice. Ranma was the Sieve in the Sorcerers' eyes. That afforded him a certain level of protection, an unwillingness to maim him, but that benefit didn't extend to his allies. Indeed, the results of the first skirmish had told him that.

"Ranma?"

Grunting with effort, a lone girl pulled herself over the edge of the roof, nursing a wound to her side. Shampoo found her feet and stepped gingerly to Ranma's side, gazing over the horizon with him.

"Will be glorious for us," she said. "Shampoo not fail you, Airen. Is promise."

Ranma let out a sigh, shaking his head. On one level, he understood her dedication, her fervor. Had he lost to someone—a stranger, a nobody—he might seek them to the ends of the earth, too, and try to prove himself the better martial artist after all, but this girl who wished to fight for him had other motives. A stupid law compelled her to make him her husband, an obligation that was archaic and pointless in his eyes. Though he'd argued with her, though he'd been violent beyond what his own good sense told him to do, nothing he'd done had dissuaded the girl from pursuing him. He could start one of those arguments again, try to speak the truth as plainly and simply as he could, but would that do any good when an army would come for his home? Not a chance. To her pledge of warrior's honor, he said the only thing that made sense.

"Thanks, Shampoo. I appreciate it. Why don't you go check on Wuya? Make sure she's not doing anything sneaky."

Shampoo clapped her hands, beaming. "Right away!" she said, and she jumped from the rooftop to Akane's balcony with a definite spring in her step.

_Sorry,_ thought Ranma. _I ain't got a choice but to use you right now. Maybe someday you'll understand what I've been saying and come to terms with it. Being bound by some bullshit law is stupid. Can't you realize that, for your own sake?_

Not that day she wouldn't, so for the moment, he would accept her strength, her warrior's prowess and wield it as if it were his own. It was the best thing to do, the smart thing to do, and if it led her on, well, that was the risk.

_There's no point in trying to keep things simple later if you're dead now._

He pulled his legs back from the edge, sitting cross-legged on the roof. He closed his eyes to meditate—nay, to reach out, for like the Sorcerers, he'd begun to see without using his eyes, to hear without using his ears, to feel the waves and ripples of ki on his skin as surely as the wind. The Sorcerers relied on this magic, and he would use it as much as he wanted. He fought fire with fire, magic with magic, and ice with ice.

And when he sensed the Sorcerers massing on a cross-street, tip-toeing and holding their staves low, he smirked. For once, he was the one springing a trap on a foe, subjecting them to the panic and horror of an unexpected, deadly game. He curled his fingers in a circle, and in the open space, he formed a long, slender rod of ice. With one end sharpened to a tip, it grew into an icy javelin, with a notch in the middle for his hand so that it wouldn't slip. He pumped the weapon overhand a couple times, glanced down the road, and with one tremendous hurl, he let the javelin fly.

There was nothing to hear of the impact, but a single Sorcerer staff tumbled forward, into the spot of a streetlamp.

"Wuya, Shampoo!" called Ranma over the edge of the rooftop. "Up here, now!"

The Sorcerers scattered, a few staying on the street, others leaping to the tops of nearby houses. Others still went straight up, preferring to come at Ranma from above. With a magic-assisted jump, Kohl was at Ranma's side, and Shampoo followed just a step behind.

"What are you doing?" asked Kohl. "Attacking from a distance?"

"I'd rather pick them off and make them improvise," said Ranma, hurling another ice javelin through the air. "You see where they're coming from—the north, right? What do you think of that?"

Sparks coming off his hand, Kohl zapped three Sorcerers in a chain, but the trio continued down the road, shielding themselves in ice. A volley of fireballs zipped over Ranma's head and blasted the eaves, lighting small fires on the rooftop. Ranma touched his finger to the shingles, and a film of frost extinguished the embers wherever they burned. Nevertheless, Kohl looked to Ranma skeptically.

"Do you really think you can hold them off from this perch, Outsider? They _will_ get inside the house. How will you keep them from Hibiki's belongings then?"

"Not your concern, Wuya."

"It _is_ my concern!"

"Your concern should be keeping me protected," said Ranma, hurling another icy javelin down the road. "Beachballs and her goons will eventually make it up here, yes. When they get into the house, they'll search it up down and sideways before they find anything. That'll keep some of them busy while the rest try to take us out. It'll keep them divided. Right now, they can't get to us right away, so let's just keep chipping away at them until they do. This right here?" He tossed another javelin. "It's like picking off ducks with a shotgun. Nothing to it."

Kohl scowled. "That doesn't mean your attacks are any less lethal. Killing from a distance is still killing. You just don't feel the life come out of a man as you do it."

Ranma rolled his eyes, but when he checked the street below them once more, he muttered to himself with an entirely serious tone. "Really, Wuya, you don't think I know that…?"

With Kohl to intercept and block the Sorcerers' retaliatory attacks, Ranma kept up his ranged assault on the invading forces of Captain Liesun and her Guardsmen. Ice and wind proved Ranma's best protection, as he shielded his body in a rounded shell of frost that stuck to the roof, and Kohl shot down any incoming projectiles with pressurized bursts of wind.

Nevertheless, as Kohl had predicted, it was inevitable that the Guard would come over the walls to the Tendō compound to breach the house, but Ranma paid them no heed. When more Sorcerers came from above and landed on the rooftop, Shampoo was the first to greet them, and her pair of maces batted a Sorcerer off the roof, back to the street below. It was the perfect setup, really. Ranma could thin the Sorcerers' numbers from afar and distract them with a whole house full of belongings that was a total decoy. Kohl and Shampoo didn't need to know that—in fact, it was better that they didn't, so long as they did what they were told. Shampoo had her hands full defending the rooftop; she wouldn't ask questions. Kohl was beginning to doubt him, to question Ranma's plans, but it was better to keep the defector off-balance anyway. Akane trusted Kohl, but that didn't mean Ranma had to.

And really, all this makeshift plan had been conceived to do was buy time and ensure relative safety while reinforcements could arrive, and arrive they did. As the streets cleared of enemy Sorcerers, all of whom had begun to ransack the Tendō house, a shrill whistle pierced the night. From atop one of the compound walls, Cologne waved her walking stick at Ranma. With her stood Mousse, Surma, a handful of rebel Sorcerers, and another Amazon whom Ranma didn't yet recognize. Strange allies they would make—Cologne who'd tried for so long to make him marry Shampoo, along with Sorcerers who'd fought him not two weeks before—but Ranma welcomed them.

"Inside!" he called down to them. "You start at the bottom; we'll go from the top, got it?"

Cologne made no answer, but those around her made immediately for the front door. Kohl and Shampoo fought off the Sorcerers on the rooftop, with a blow from Kohl's staff sending a foe sliding and prying shingles away. Looks, not words, were all the communication the three of them needed, and Kohl and Shampoo followed Ranma over the side to Akane's balcony. Inside, two Sorcerers rifled through the bed and the closet, scattering a sundress and mattress material about the room.

Kohl cupped his hand, and a burst of compressed air shattered the glass door, firing shards at the Sorcerers like shot from a cannon. From that moment, the time for sniping at enemies from range was over, and Ranma felt familiar instincts take over. A string of snowflakes bound him to his foe, and from that, a column of ice crystallized and widened, impaling a Sorcerer and pinning him to the wall over the bed. Drops of blood stained the walls as the Sorcerer flailed futilely to free himself, but his breath expired faster than he could bash and claw at the ice.

_What a mess,_ thought Ranma, watching the blood run down the wall. _Sorry, Akane, but I don't think we'll have time to clean this up right now._

The second Sorcerer in the room backpedaled, fleeing out the door and freezing it over with ice, but that was hardly a barrier to Ranma, Kohl, or especially…

"Shampoo." Ranma jerked his head to toward the wall. "If you would."

Eagerly, Shampoo kicked through the solid wall, showering the escaping Sorcerer in wood and rubble. She dispatched of him easily, adding another victory to her name.

Ranma signalled to Kohl and Shampoo, having them follow his lead. Hallways were dangerous, for they negated superiority in firepower or numbers. Every match would be head-on, one-on-one, and though Ranma had tried to avoid direct combat before, the Sorcerers had come to him this time. He'd do what was necessary and feel no regrets for it.

He treated lightly over a discarded comb and mirror, past strewn undergarments and stockings. Nabiki's and Kasumi's bedrooms were fair game to these Sorcerers, too, and like with Akane's room, they'd made a royal mess violating the girls' belongings and privacy. It was an invasion.

And the only thing worse about it was the inevitable spilling of blood on the floor, the shattering of mirrors, the exposed wood and metal that stuck out when Kohl blasted a Sorcerer through an exterior wall, propelling him into the pond. The Sorcerers had turned the Tendō house into a warzone, but bedsheets could be cleaned. Clothes could be patched together or replaced. With just Kohl and Shampoo watching his back, Ranma felt no special urgency or danger. He dictated the terms of battle, and to him, the Sorcerers were little more than pawns on a chessboard for a rampaging queen.

_I'd rather be a king, but the queen's the most powerful piece, so I guess we have to go with that._

The last Sorcerer in Kasumi's room collapsed as Ranma's ice-covered fist made contact with his cheek.

"Downstairs," Ranma ordered his two companions, and they barged back to the hall, wary and watchful as they reached the stair.

BOOM-BOOM! A fireball blasted the hallway wall, its searing flame singing Ranma's eyebrows as he shielded his face from the heat.

WHACK! A polished metal ball smashed the Sorcerer's knee. It bounded back on an elastic hemp rope and shot out again, coiling around the Sorcerer and wrapping him up. A quick blow to the head from Kohl's staff finished the last enemy off, and the owner of the ball on the string—Marula with her meteor hammer—stepped past the downed Sorcerer, bowing before Ranma with unintelligible words of Chinese.

"Ah…I remember you, I think," said Ranma. "Maple Syrup or something, right?"

"Not quite," said Cologne, who called to the four of them from the base of the staircase. "Come down, Ranma. The ground floor appears to be clear."

Descending the stair, Ranma saw the full extent of the damage. The main room was in no better shape than the upstairs bedrooms. The dinner table had split in two. The television screen had cracked, exposing the cathode-ray tube inside. Lighting was erratic, flickering even as Elder Surma tried to tighten the bulb.

And four corpses were strewn between there and the doors to the pond.

"The rest have fled, I should think," said Cologne, tapping a dead Sorcerer with her walking stick. "But we can only hope they haven't made off with the items they were after."

"They haven't," said Ranma, barely concealing his smirk. "The stuff wasn't here in the first place."

"Not here?" cried Kohl, incredulous. "What is the meaning of this, Outsider?"

"I had them smuggled out. You didn't really think I'd let them get into the whole house if the Hibiki family's precious box of useless trinkets were still here, did you?"

"Then where are they?"

"Not important. They're safe. That's all you need to know."

"I see," said Kohl, nodding. "You sent them away."

"That's right." Ranma looked around. "Where's the rope-maker? She didn't want to come play? I'm so disappointed I won't see her face."

"She didn't want to risk herself in battle," said one of the rebels. "She sent us in her stead."

Ranma rolled his eyes. "Ah, the deeds of cowards. Come on, let's make sure the coast is clear. We don't want to let those guys get away."

The combined forces of Amazons, rebel Sorcerers, Kohl, and Ranma split up to scour the surrounding area, watching from the tops of the compound walls to walking the streets, looking for hidden threats. By the groups's best count, there were fifteen dead Sorcerers—three on the street outside the gate, from when Shampoo disrupted their sneak attack; three more further down the road that Ranma had killed from afar; the rest had died within the house or near it. For all their efforts, one of the rebels had taken a chunk of wood to the gut, but in whole, the trap had worked as Ranma planned it. The Sorcerers didn't know the house like he did, nor how to fight in a confined space when they hoped uncover something and confirm its destruction. The battle had been a victory on all counts, but as Ranma circled the house one last time, something nagged at him.

_Where's Liesun?_

Fifteen Sorcerers was a harsh blow. The Guard wouldn't lightly absorb it—their numbers were small—but where was their captain?

Ranma asked around for Kohl, and hearing that the defector had returned to his makeshift abode to search for any lingering survivors, Ranma headed to the dojo.

"Wuya!"

He found the former captain wandering the interior of the dojo unsteadily. Kohl staggered to a wall, bracing himself, and two fingers to a bloody nostril.

"Hey," said Ranma. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I'm not well, Outsider," Kohl grunted. "There's a great buildup of magic here, in the earth around us. It's disorienting. It nearly overwhelmed me."

"And so you did what—ran into a door?"

"It was not a door; it was a wall."

Ranma sighed in frustration. This time, Kohl was just uncultured enough that he might not appreciate the significance of what he'd said. "Forget it; I'm not interested in your clumsiness. Tell me what Liesun is trying to do. She ain't here. Does that make sense to you?"

"No…" Feeling for the wall, Kohl lowered himself to the floor, sitting with his palms against his forehead as if to cushion himself against a massive headache. He his eyes were bloodshot and red, and he soon closed them tightly, grimacing and holding his breath.

"Look, I don't care about your magic migraines. Is everyone in the Guard other than you so cowardly that they won't walk into battle with the men they lead?"

"You tricked her once before," said Kohl weakly. "Liesun would want to know where the objects are before committing her forces fully again."

"So what then? They're going to come back?"

A breeze picked up, whipping through the dojo—gently at first, then increasing to a roar. Ranma poked his head out the doors, studying the night sky. The clouds had darkened, swelling with moisture, but over the Tendō home, the formation morphed and twisted. It dipped downward, curling into a gray funnel.

"Come on, Wuya," Ranma called back. "I think we ought to go."

Kohl groaned.

"Hey, come on, moron!" Ranma snatched Kohl's wrist and dragged the former captain out of the dojo. The whipping wind roared, unrelenting, and as Ranma and Kohl jumped over the estate wall, the twister ripped tiles from the rooftop.

#

Though the first raindrops of the evening fell, Akane let the water seep into her nightgown, for the earth-shaking rumble of the tornado demanded all her attention. The party of five had ventured from Ucchan's Okonomiyaki, but when the winds picked up, they halted in their tracks and took cover. Perhaps they were safer out in the open than in a building that could splinter and fracture around them, but in the din of the storm, standing on an empty street surely didn't feel safer. The Tendō house was but a block away, and despite the battle that they believed to be taking place there, Ryōga suggested they press on.

"It can't be worse going into a fight than sitting here!" he reasoned, taking cover under his heavy umbrella and shouting over the tornado's roar. "We'll get picked up and thrown around like frogs from a pond at this rate!"

Ukyō pointed at the storm with a throwing spatula. "Use your eyes, Ryōga! Where do you think that tornado is hitting?"

"My house!" cried Sōun. "My beautiful house! It's been in my family for fifteen generations!"

Genma raised an eyebrow. "I thought you won it from a Public Works official in a card game."

"Well, it's been in _someone's_ family for fifteen generations!"

Akane looked on the scene of destruction in horror. Even as far away as they were, pieces of wood and plaster rained from the sky, clattering on the street. If that was the level of mayhem happening around them, what was Ranma going through?

"We have to go," said Akane. "They could still be fighting right now!"

"Where?" Ukyō put an arm over her face, looking into the wind. "Even Sorcerers aren't stupid enough to put a tornado right on top of where they're fighting. They must be trying to soften Ranchan up, to keep him busy—but as long as that tornado is there, there's no fighting at the house. They're out here somewhere. Stay put. I'll go find Ranchan and let him know we've arrived."

"You're going by yourself?" asked Ryōga.

"You're glued to Akane-chan," she reasoned, "and these old fools aren't too keen on walking into a windstorm, are they?"

Handing over her battle spatula to Ryōga, lest it act like a sail in the wind, Ukyō jogged down the road, into the swirling storm.

"Akane-san." Ryōga motioned to her from around the corner of the cross-street, shielded from the wind. "Come back this way; it's better if we're not seen until we know what the situation is."

Better for their safety, perhaps, but not for Ranma's. Akane saw clearly the damage further battle had done. Down the road, icy spears stuck in the bodies of dead Sorcerers. Surely that was Ranma's doing. He'd killed because it was necessary; he had the courage to do so when, on occasion, Akane might waver instead, but Ranma hadn't wanted her around. Part of that was to protect her, yes, but was the carnage something he wanted to shield her from, too?

Well that was a silly thought. It wasn't like Akane hadn't seen her share of fighting or of Ranma himself in the heat of battle. For all any of them knew, Ranma and the Sorcerers were fighting as the rest of them stood around staring dumbly at the tornado.

Though the wind stung her eyes, Akane looked closely at her surroundings. She trotted further into the street. She squinted, scanning the rooftops.

_I can't stay back, cowering behind cover just because it's the best thing for me._

The rain intensified, from scattered droplets to a definite shower, but Akane kept searching, for she followed her gut instincts. If they were trying to flush Ranma out, they'd hold still until the tornado abated, and there was nothing to worry about, but if they were trying to distract and delay him instead, they would be going somewhere, and there was one place they absolutely couldn't allow the Sorcerers to go. Akane turned back, running through the rain toward Ukyō's restaurant, but truly, in such a tumult of sights and sounds—rain falling in the dark, a tornado shredding the only home she'd ever known—she had little chance of finding anyone. She couldn't feel waves and ripples of ki.

To catch even a trace of Sorcerers, she'd need help.

THUD! A single Sorcerer slipped on a slick rooftop and fell, shedding singles from a neighbor's home. His companions stopped briefly to pick him up and jump the roofs once more.

Akane pointed. "Ryōga-kun, there! After them!"

Under his heavy red umbrella, Hibiki Ryōga looked back at her, horrified. He put a hand out from the cover of his umbrella, feeling the rain. "You—you—you want _me_ to do what?"

The Sorcerers jumped another roof, fading behind the ever-thickening curtain of rain.

"Never mind!" she told Ryōga. "Go back to my father and Uncle; I'll handle this!"

"Ah—wait, Akane-san!"

She dashed down the sidewalk, fighting the rainwater that splashed into her eyes. She ran around lampposts, hoping not to make herself visible to the Sorcerers above. All she needed to reach them was a few stepping stones—a wall that she could jump atop, a shed with an angled roof to give her a boost in height. Until then, she kept up with her foes. The Sorcerers moved together, jumping from roof to roof with inhuman grace. No doubt their magic allowed them to float like swans. Why they didn't want to fly out of Akane's reach she couldn't know. Did it save their energy? Did they not want to be buffeted and blown around by the natural winds of the storm? In the end, Akane counted herself lucky either way. Normally, she was a distance runner, but for this, she drew upon every last drop of energy she could muster. The Sorcerers were limited by the speed of their slowest member; she wasn't. That's what gave her the chance, however slim, to catch up to them. All she had to do was keep them in her sights, catch up one step at a time, and then keep pace until she found an opportunity.

And opportunity came. At last she outpaced them, and she leapfrogged from a set of tall plastic trash bins to a neighbor's balcony to the roof proper. With the narrow peak at the top, she had to grab and hold to steady herself. She slipped, banging a knee, but her grip on the rooftop held.

The Sorcerers heard her clamoring. They paused momentarily to understand the source of the noise, and then they took off with greater urgency. They hadn't flown before, but the contingent of Sorcerers soared from the rooftop one by one, the force of their takeoffs pushing back the rain, but in their confusion, one Sorcerer leapt from the rooftop a hair later than the others, and Akane knew that was her only chance. After the last Sorcerer's dangling legs and feet Akane jumped. She stretched her arms and reached blindly into the rain and the night, hoping to catch even a thread of the Sorcerer's pantleg.

_Come on, just a little further; come on!_

She expected to get a fleeting piece of damp cloth; she got a whole foot instead. Like a wounded bird, the Sorcerer fell, Akane weighing him down. They crashed into the rooftop and tumbled back to the earth, to a sand garden that had turned caked and sticky in the storm. Wiping her face clean, Akane scrambled to her feet.

And a sharp, stabbing jolt went through her ankle. She let out a sudden groan and worked lamely to her feet. A household flood light came on—no doubt as the owners wondered what had just crashed into their home—and Akane shaded her eyes, assessing the situation. The Sorcerer she'd gone down with had fared little better. Stunned and confused, he crawled on all fours, his movements aimless and undirected.

The movements of his Sorcerer Guard brethren, however, were anything but aimless. They descended around their fallen comrade, helping him to his feet. The leader—the girl with dark hair and a tremendous chest—marched up to Akane with a furious gaze and narrowed eyes.

"You're lucky you're the Sieve's beloved, or I would kill you where you stand,"

Akane's first slammed against the captain's cheekbone, and though her blow had been weakened due to one lame foot, the new captain staggered and backpedaled all the same.

_That's right. It doesn't matter what you do to me; I've already stopped you. One little girl stopped all of you, even if it's only for a minute._

Captain Liesun's men drew their staves, but she raised a hand to stay their weapons.

"That doesn't mean I won't cause you pain." The captain cupped her hand, and—

PAM! A sphere of pressurized air blasted Akane backward. She careened through a surrounding wall and into the street. Her skin scraped against the asphalt. Her nightgown caught and tore. The dense air pushed painfully on her eardrums and enveloped the whole world in naught but a high-pitched ring. She saw raindrops but couldn't hear them, and there was a faint, distant cry.

"Akane-san!"

Bold and furious, Ryōga came after Akane's attackers, balancing his umbrella delicately to hold off the rain, but the Sorcerers were ready for him. Together, they channeled a great fireball and hurled it at their foe, and though Ryōga easily dodged it, the blast when it hit ground and exploded was more difficult to expect. The umbrella slipped from his hands; the light was a blinding contrast against the darkness. It bored through Akane's pupils and made her shut her eyes to keep it out, and when all was told, nothing remained of Ryōga that she could see except his clothes.

But there were others still behind him. "How dare you treat my daughter that way!" cried Sōun, and he laid into the nearest Sorcerer with a dropkick from above. His partner, Saotome Genma in panda form, chose to be far less acrobatic, rampaging through the yard like a wrecking ball. The Sorcerers fought back with wind and lightning, but they weren't the only ones to wield the elements. Rebel Sorcerers joined the fray, fighting their old comrades. As she lay on the street, cradling her scuffed flesh, Akane thought she heard a rabid duck flying over the fray as it pelted the Sorcerers with knives, their metal glinting in the light.

Akane sat upright and examined her wounds. Her arms had taken most of the impact on the street, so the skin just before her elbows had been rubbed raw and bloodied. Her ankle still throbbing, it was all she could do to stand and drag one leg as dead weight. She had to get to safety if she couldn't fight—and as much as it stung her pride to admit it, she'd done all she could do for that evening. With phantom ringing in her ears overwhelming her, she staggered away from the battle, making for the opposite side of the street, but a firm hand grasped her shoulder, and a jolt of adrenaline came back to her, dulling her pain, sharpening her senses just enough to hear clearly. She turned to face the foe—

"Hey!"

And found her fiancé, Saotome Ranma, instead.

He was a girl at the time, already dripping with rainwater. He struck a defensive stance, likely startled from her sudden movement, but his palms were out, facing her, and held up to calm her down.

"Easy," he said. "Easy now."

Akane relaxed, and indeed, with the burst of energy fading quickly, her legs buckled, and she collapsed in Ranma's arms.

"Hey, careful!"

He grabbed an arm to steady her, but his hand touched her scrapes, and she cringed.

"The hell…?" He turned her arm over, seeing the wounds for the first time. "You look like you've been through a meat grinder."

Akane laughed weakly. That wasn't far from the truth.

"Geez, why couldn't you have just stayed at Ucchan's?"

"There was no way," said Akane. "There was no way I could leave you to fight them. Even if I could only do something small, no matter how much it hurt…"

Ranma's expression darkened. He looked to the battle under the floodlight while a booming explosion kicked up sand and dirt. "How?" he asked her, beginning to tremble. "Which one of them did this to you?"

A twinge struck Akane's stomach. That was a familiar question. Ranma had asked it before. The intensity of his gaze, even when it wasn't on her—how he shook just to see her wounded—it was just like the way he'd acted when they'd met inside Mount Phoenix. Even then, as he held her on that rainy street, he was thinking about who to take out his anger on, who to punish for her injuries, and it wasn't any kind of objective, reasoned thought.

He needed to exact revenge, for it wounded him to see her hurt and suffering, and he knew not what else to do. This Akane realized as Ranma held her, trembling with rage and anxiety and fear, and she knew then, in that instant, the best way to answer his questions.

With silence.

This Ranma didn't expect, for his eyes snapped back, onto her, and she shook her lightly, as if to wake her up. "Hey, I'm talking to you; stay with me. Who did this?"

She shook her head. "This isn't for me, Ranma. Go out there. Do what you came to do, but not only for my sake."

His mouth opened slightly, and he blinked, at loss. "How can you say that?"

"Because I know now what I'm doing to you," she said. "Just by being here. I'm trying to change that, and I know you are, too. For right now, we have to keep fighting to make ourselves into the people we want to be. I know going out and getting revenge every time I scrape a knee isn't what you look forward to. That's not who you want to be."

He stared her, digesting what she'd said. He looked to the floodlight and back again. "You gonna be okay?"

Akane nodded solemnly.

"All right." He glanced down, at his chest, and touched his lips, feeling the water between his finger and thumb. Nodding, he put her down, on the sidewalk, made two fists, and marched across the road.

Limping, Akane followed him to bear witness to his response. Indeed, though the battle raged around him, manifest in brilliant sparks and dashes of flame, Ranma walked through it calmly, like a young lady on a midnight stroll.

"Hey, guys."

Sorcerer staves parried one another as their users—both Guardsmen and rebels alike—shed bubbles of waterproof soap.

"HEY!"

The panda stopped chewing on a staff, and the sounds of battle ceased. Only then could they assess the damage battle had done. One more Sorcerer had been sidelined, cradling his knee. Elder Surma breathed heavily, and even Cologne had had blood drawn from her, for she nursed a cut on her cheek.

"Beachballs, over here," said Ranma, wagging a finger at Captain Liesun. "Look, you've got two guys wounded; you're not getting what you came for here. This is the only chance I'll give you. Go home to Sindoor and tell her you failed because you were too enamored with your own rack to think like a real leader—like Wuya, say."

Ranma pointed out the former captain, who—lacking soap—stood as the more imposing yet powerless Kohl.

"On second thought, maybe she's not the best example," he went on. "But if you know what's good for you, you'll scram. You've got too many wounded. Dead men can't fight another day."

"If the Lady demands it of us, we will gladly stake our lives on our task," said Liesun. "We are not defeated yet."

Ranma sighed, shaking his head. "Hey, Akane? How's that? Good enough?"

Akane stepped into the light, nodding, but she didn't say a word.

"Dandy," said Ranma, wiggling his fingers. "In that case…"

A string of snowflakes tethered him and the captain.

PAM! A pressure wave kicked up sand, propelling Ranma backward, into the air. He flipped end-over-end but stuck a landing on a wall separating the house they were fighting outside of from the street.

"All right," he said, "take two then." He held his arm up, the point of his elbow shielding his face, and a conical sheet of ice formed before him. Leading with the point of the cone, he leapt forward like a missile.

PAM-PAM! Bolts of pressure blasted Ranma's improvised shield, yet though the ice cracked, the cone as a whole held, and only when panic flashed in Liesun's eyes did Ranma dare lower it to deliver his strike.

And deliver it he did, with all the momentum of a knight on his prized steed.

THWAP!

A column of ice stuck through Liesun's gut. Ranma's speed carried him further, and he bowled Liesun over, the both of them tumbling in the sand. Ranma rose right away, but for Liesun, the process was slower. With the diameter of a fifty-yen piece, the spike hadn't been instantly lethal, but its size and weight would deter any attempt to fight with it. The spike stuck halfway through her body, dispelling any notion of taking it out on the spot.

As Liesun flailed, Ranma addressed the rest of her Sorcerers—what few were left of them. "Now you've got three men down. Do yourselves a favor. Sindoor doesn't want to have to train a new captain. Actually, I don't want to see a new one either. I prefer fighting the idiot I know over someone I don't, so I won't be terribly sad to see Beachballs permanently deflated here. Your choice, then, is to decide who you want to piss off—me and Sindoor, or neither of us. You decide. You want to see her live? Or will I go home having taken fifty of you instead of forty-nine?"

Wisely, the remaining Sorcerers retreated, carrying Liesun and the other two wounded on their backs as they flew.

And Ranma, for his part, opened and closed his fist several times, letting out labored breath.

#

The Sorcerers made no more attacks that night, and in the morning, the first order of business was finishing the analysis of Hibiki's souvenirs. Though his travels were many and varied, from Hokkaidō to Okinawa in the south, one location cropped up in his gifts for home more than any other:

Xining, the capital of Qinghai Province in China, but why Hibiki would've visited that place no one, not even Ryōga, could say.

While Cologne and the Amazons made arrangements for an expanded party to visit the mainland, the Tendō and Saotome families scoured the wreckage of the house and dojo for traces of their belongings. Though Ranma, Genma, and Nodoka had few belongings of consequence, the Tendō clan felt the loss much more keenly. For Akane, it meant photos of her mother utterly shredded in the wind or damaged in the rain. Clothes were of no consequence to her; they could be replaced, but the loss of treasured mementos was a permanent, indelible wound. The koi pond had drained, with only a few centimeters of water left after the tornado had emptied it. Pots and pans lay bent and twisted and scattered across the whole block. It was the only home Akane had ever known, and though Nodoka had offered to put up both families in her rebuilt home, the Saotome residence could be called _cozy_ only in the most polite sense, and the cramped feelings from that arrangement would no doubt act as a constant reminder of the home that had gone.

This was the damage the Sorcerers had done, and though the home and dojo would be rebuilt, it wasn't enough. With every piece of rubble, of splintered wood and crumbling plaster, Akane vowed not to let the Sorcerers do such a thing again. What she'd endured—what her family had endured—was too much to ask of anyone, even if it only through inaction.

As for Ranma, he supported her vow completely and helped pick through the ruins of the Tendō home for precious objects, jewelry, and supplies. For that, Akane felt relief. After the battle, Ranma hadn't dwelt on the Sorcerers he'd killed or Akane's wounds. Truly, Ranma had controlled himself that day, but Akane realized his struggle. How much had he wanted to kill Liesun on the spot for what she'd done? If Akane hadn't helped him realize it, would he have been able to resist the temptation, the unstable emotions frothing within him?

Fifty. That's what Liesun would've been to him—just a number. Ranma had made it sound like he took pride in it, but that wasn't so. Even over the bodies of dead Sorcerers, he'd shaken his head silently, pitying them, trying to comprehend the senselessness of their deaths. The lives he'd been forced to take had affected him more than he could know, more than Akane had realized before that day.

And worrying about her well-being wasn't doing him any favors. How deathly afraid he must've been to keep her away from Ryōga's home for no other reason than Sorcerers no one could've expected. Sending her away with the Hibiki souvenirs served to protect her as much as give her something meaningful to do, but there would always be danger involved when Sorcerers were near. More than once she'd fought Sorcerers and come out battered, beaten, and bruised for it. She'd resolved to change that, but she knew it wouldn't happen overnight, which meant Ranma would still worry over her. Nevertheless, she knew one thing—the closer they stood, the more painful it would be to see the other in danger.

As storm clouds brewed once again the next day, the Tendō and Saotome families decided to leave the rubble of the Tendō home, having recovered as much as they could. With imminent preparations to go to China, further efforts would have to wait. Under a precession of umbrellas, the families headed to Nodoka's small home, newly rebuilt and waiting for them. Ranma and Akane walked together under a single parasol to bring up the rear. It was Akane who held the umbrella, and her pace slowed to distance them from the others.

"What's wrong?" asked Ranma. "Getting tired?"

She shook her head and looked away to muster the nerve. "It's not that. Ranma, I think we should stop."

"Stop what?"

"Us, for a little while." She held up one arm, showing the scabs and discolored skin of her scrape with the asphalt. "It really gets to you. I can see it. When you realized I was hurt, the look in your eyes was like when you saved me from Shampoo. You were ready to kill someone for it."

"I wouldn't have—"

Akane shot him a look, and he averted his gaze, unable to defend the thought. He pressed his lips together grimly, and in a lower, more serious tone, he continued.

"It's like getting stabbed in the heart with a knife, over and over," he said. "Even a simple scratch on your face, the way you have to wince when you touch a wound—some of it is because it takes me back to Saffron, yeah, but I think the rest of it is all me. I don't know why, but that's the way it is."

Akane nodded. "That's why I think we should take a break. Until I can make sure I'm not in those situations anymore, until you can find a way so it doesn't trouble so much if I do end up in one—it seems like the only thing to do."

"Yeah, I guess that's the smart thing to do," he agreed, eyes still looking to the rain.

"I'm glad. I'm really glad about that because, honestly? You're my closest friend now, Ranma. What's happened over the last month, between Saffron and the Sorcerers—it's something we share that not many people would understand. Ryōga-kun's a part of it, sure, but in a different way. I don't want anything to damage our friendship."

"Me neither," said Ranma, his brow creasing.

"Good." Akane stopped before the path from the street to the Saotome home. "We can go back to the way we always were—ah, I mean, better than that, since we understand each other a little better now. And besides, we won't have time for dates or anything like that while in China, so it only makes sense."

Ranma's eyes locked with hers. He closed his hand around the umbrella handle, touching her fingers, too. "But is that what you _want_?"

"What I want?" Akane flushed. "No, but we should do the best thing—"

"Forget that," said Ranma. "You figured something out today, right? That whatever we're going towards, it's painful and tough. You're right about that. You're absolutely right, but what I've known, I've known for a long time—that I don't want to have to bank on a miracle of a third chance if I lose you again."

"You're not going to lose me, Ranma."

He tapped his temple. "I know that up here, but I think the only way I'm going to really convince myself of it is if I have no regrets." With his free hand, he reached out to her, brushing a lock of hair from her face. "Really, Akane. You mean the world to me. I'm not going to chicken out and pretend it ain't so."

Ranma's hand moved lightly to the back of her head, and against her better judgment, against the reasons she'd so carefully thought out, Akane allowed him to pull her closer. She shut her eyes, their lips touched, and when it was over, Akane put all those meticulously justified ideas out of her mind. To go back from the precipice after having seen bottom would be to deny oneself the panic, the thrill, the anxiety, the pure rush of emotions one felt when parachuting from the top. Perhaps it was false confidence, but as she and Ranma walked inside, hand in hand, Akane believed all her worries from the day before to be hasty—the wayward thoughts of a girl afraid to love. With Ranma at her side that afternoon, she feared nothing and thought all obstacles surmountable in time.

But what she failed to notice was an obstacle just down the road. At the corner of a nearby street, a visitor with a steaming pot in one hand and an umbrella in the other witnessed this display, and she stormed off as soon as it was done, careful to keep the battle spatula on her back in place. She went instead to a small restaurant—not her own, but a competitor's of sorts, though with a notice that it would close temporarily while the owners were out of town. Inside the Cat Café, the tables were largely empty. Cologne held a corded phone to her ear, bickering with the person on the other end in Chinese, but her great-granddaughter sat in a booth and had a pleasant cup of tea. Hibiki Ryōga gladly shared in her refreshment, and they talked in low whispers, only just looking up as Ukyō arrived.

"They were kissing," the okonomiyakki chef announced, laying her steaming pot to rest on an adjacent table. "Ranchan and Akane-chan—in the open, for everyone to see."

Ryōga looked appalled, but Shampoo sat back, determination on her face. "Is not unexpected," she said. "That what lovers do, after all—even ones whose love is meant to fail."

Fighting down the sick feeling in her stomach, Ukyō motioned for Ryōga to scoot over and sat across from Shampoo in the booth. "And just how would you do that? How would you make them see it won't work, I mean?"

"That what Ryōga and I just discuss right now." Shampoo slid an empty up Ukyō's way and fingered the handle of a tea kettle. "Perhaps the three of us would do better?"

"You're not killing her," said Ukyō, "or doing anything that's too violent. I expect Ryōga's holding you to that much."

"I wouldn't be here if I weren't," he said. "And if what you say is true, this may be the only way."

Shampoo set up to pour Ukyō's drink, and only with a reluctant nod from the chef did the Amazon fill the porcelain cup to the brim with hot jasmine tea. "Then it decided," said Shampoo. "The three of us join together to keep Ranma and Akane apart. We do all that the group find…reasonable to make them see how bad for each other they are."

Eying a small trace of leaf matter in her tea, Ukyō took the cup, pondering the significance of the deed. Ryōga looked solemn and stern, but Shampoo bore a wide grin, watching eagerly as Ukyō raised the tea to her lips.

_I'm not as desperate as her, am I? It's reasonable, isn't it, to recognize this may be the only chance I have left?_

Not know the answers to her own questions, Ukyō downed every last drop of the tea and silently bore the burn of the hot fluid as it made its way down her throat. Though Shampoo wanted it to mean commitment to the task, Ukyō considered it her own resolution—to keep the dangerous Amazon in front of her restrained, for some of that girl's need rested in her own heart, too, and Ukyō couldn't afford to be blind to it.

"So it is," said Shampoo. "The three of us work together from now on. Tomorrow, we go to China."

"And after that?" asked Ukyō.

"After that," said the Amazon, "we break Ranma and Akane up for good."

Her tea finished, Ukyō set the porcelain cup on the table, and it clinked on the plastic covering with the finality of a judge's gavel.

#

And so, the denizens of Nerima ward set out on new paths—some hoping to explore joy, others trying desperately to reclaim it. For all, however, these journeys consisted of continual struggles.

For Ukyō, it was the precarious balance between seeking her heart's desires and living with what she'd need to do to claim it, between becoming the good chef her father wanted her to be and the wife she thought she could make herself into for Ranma.

For Shampoo, it was the need to find satisfaction, to do worthy deeds, even when her tribe and beloved had turned their backs on her.

For Kohl, the duty to serve stranded him from the only home he'd ever known, and thus he found himself in a world foreign and alien—intriguing, yet nothing he could imagine partaking of. He stood alone as a representative of his people, surrounded by temptation and holding fast against it, at least for a time.

For Akane, the only way she could be happy to was to show trust—even when that trust might not be returned. Only by suppressing her insecurities could she preserve the fledgling relationship she'd built, and in moments of indecision and worry, that was no easy task.

Finally, Ranma faced the steepest path of all. Few men know the security of someone who can accept their darkest thoughts and impulses. Fewer still are brave enough to reveal them. In truth, there is no perfect lover, no absolute and unconditional counselor to take in these volatile feelings, but people do the best they can. The challenge for Ranma was to admit those drives he feared to someone else and to become comfortable doing so. Though he faced his inner demons on that rain-soaked night, the war against these drives is everlasting. The temptation to close in and hide our vulnerabilities is an instinct we all share.

That's why, even in Japan, there could be no place of sanctuary, whether from the Sorcerers or—most of all—from the weaknesses that lie within our hearts.

**_Identity_ 08 End**

* * *

With the conclusion of this chapter, I have an announcement to make. Returning to this piece has been a fantastic experience, and I feel I've learned much over the last three years of working on it. In fact, I've learned enough to realize that the piece as a whole could benefit from a significant facelift. To that end, I am rewriting _Identity_ in the hopes of making the reading experience and quality more uniform, to make this story everything it can be.

To my readers, thank you, and I hope the new version of this story will be an even better read.

-Muphrid  
June 20, 2012

Further information on the _Identity_ rewrite is available at westofarcturus dot blogspot dot com


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